Twelve
by whirdart
Summary: It's 1995-the Demogorgons breached the dimensions and the world is a dystopian shadow of itself. 36 protected colonies are all that remain of N. America. Outside of the colonies are the Badlands & the Vale-Demogorgon hunting grounds. Living in the poverty-stricken 24th colony is Twelve, a Demogorgon hunter and unlikely heroine. Stranger Things: Nancy, Lucas, Dustin, Holly, etc.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Thank you for checking out my new Stranger Things Fanfic! This piece is something of a sequel from my first (which you can read here: s/12183864/1/). It takes place 12 years after the show. The Upside Down has merged with the modern world, enveloping half of the earth, creating a dystopian society where civilians live in colonies, protected from the Demogorgons by the Authority (military/government). POV is Twelve-a familiar young woman with a gift for killing Demogorgons.

* * *

Twelve 

One

Ted pulled his hat lower and shrugged his shoulders against the cold. His breath clouded the air in quick puffs, leaving microscopic dew drops in his mustache. Every footstep crunched through the thin layer of ice that had frozen over the week's snowfall. When he paused, Ted heard nothing. The world was all dead trees and ice and silence. He hated the winter; he always had. The unrelenting cold, the biting wind and sleepless nights. But this winter was the worst. Not yet February and three workers had frozen to death in their own homes.

If it had just been Ted, he'd manage. Somehow he'd get through. But there was Diane, his wife, and Teddy, his son. _And what man wouldn't do this for his family?_ he thought. He tightened his grip on the crowbar and forged ahead. Where did the working class get fuel and blankets and clothing when their salaries barely covered their food? The black market—the seedy underbelly of the dingy outer circle of Northeast's Sector 3. That's where he could get oil and heavy blankets and winter jackets and boots, but he needed to pay and with his weekly tokens barely covering their food, he needed to find another form of payment. And there was one thing the hawkers wanted: dead reapers.

Ted stopped again and lowered his shoulders, exposing his ears to the icy cold. He listened for any sound, the hint of movement, the telltale slow nickering of a reaper nearby, but the Badlands were silent. Ahead the trees cleared to reveal a patch of bare sumac. Ted ducked beneath their branches, breaking off the more brittle twigs as he passed. Gradually the underbrush cleared, revealing a sloping, snow-covered lawn and a sprawling, two-story grey building. On the far side of the grounds was an old, overgrown parking lot and in between the lot and Ted was an elaborate, wooden playground. The swings had long ago fallen and the slide was rusted, but in all, it was still a marvel of the time before the reapers and the Vale. The sight relaxed Ted and for some reason, brought tears to his eyes. His grip relaxed on the crowbar and he imagined the schoolyard flooded with laughing children, singing and playing, racing across the wooden turrets and slipping down the slide.

He'd gone to an elementary school a lot like this one in Pittsburgh. The playground hadn't been as nice, of course, but he still remembered fondly his days there—the friends, the teachers, recess. And high school. Of course there was no recess in high school—he smiled to himself—but still, what a wonderful time to be alive! Before the reapers came. Ted's eyes darkened. Before the south was swallowed by the Vale and the north was broken into sectors and colonies governed by fear and hunger.

A movement between two wooden playground towers brought Ted's thoughts to a sudden halt. He withdrew slightly into the overgrowth and retightened his grip on the black crowbar at his side. The form reappeared and immediately he recognized it as human. It was a woman. He squinted. She was carrying something small and had a baton strapped to her belt. Ted cocked his head. What was she doing? Being in the Badlands without authorization was illegal. Everyone knew that. And yet…

The woman stood up straight and took a long, slow look around. She wore close-fitting clothes with a military-grade jacket. But she wasn't military. Her clothes were black and grey, not the blue of the Authority. And there was something familiar about that baton.

Ted froze as her eyes raked across the tree line. His clothes, filthy from long days at work, blended into the thicket and the woman hadn't seemed to notice. After scanning her surroundings, she bent at the waist and extended whatever was clutched in her right hand. Ted watched a stream of black suddenly shoot out from the object and splatter against the snow. She turned and shot another jet against the wooden tower beside her. A third, fourth and, finally, fifth splash marked the ice and snow that surrounded the woman. She straightened and tucked the object into her jacket pocket. Ted strained to see what she'd sprayed on the ground, but it just looked like black splatters. Dye? Ink? Was she marking the spot for something?

The woman seemed to relax then. She crossed her arms and shifted her weight, kicking up one foot casually. She seemed to be waiting for something. Ted felt the answer dawning on him as the liquid, slowly melting a path through the snow, left tracks of red against the white. Blood. Suddenly Ted knew what she was waiting for. He felt the crowbar in his hand and his eyes fell again to her slender baton. His heart lurched. She'd be torn to shreds!

Abandoning his secrecy, Ted emerged from the woods, crunching through the ice-crusted snow. The woman abruptly tensed. It took Ted a moment to realize she wasn't responding to his appearance. She was looking straight ahead to where a reaper was stalking out from between the crowded branches of a row of white pines.

Ted froze. He'd never been this close to a real-life reaper. It stood at least seven feet high; its body was a coiled mass of muscles and each deliberate step sent a ripple of power and strength across the yard. Its jaws were snapped shut, folded together to create a hawk-like sharpness in the reaper's face. Weaving its head left and right, it seemed to be seeking out the blood and then it locked on, snapping its head in the direction of the woman, it crouched low for an attack.

Ted surprised himself when he screamed, "Run!"

Both the woman and the reaper turned abruptly to look at him, but the reaper couldn't be distracted for long. It lunged forward, racing for the blood. "Run!" Ted screamed again, darting toward the woman with his crowbar raised.

She didn't flinch. With deft movement, she removed the baton and braced herself. Before the reaper reached her, she glanced at Ted out of the corner of her eyes and said clearly, "Stay away."

Her words didn't slow his momentum, but her movements stopped him in his tracks.

The reaper reached out and in a blinding flash, she'd swung the baton, catching the creature's elbow as it extended for her. Its upper body twisted left from the strike and the woman took the opportunity to swing the baton again, landing it against the outside of the reaper's left leg, spinning its lower body right. The reaper fell to the ground and Ted watched, his jaw open, crowbar slipping out of his limp fingers. In an instant the reaper was back up, slashing at the woman who dodged and repelled his attacks with an almost bored look on her face.

She moved faster than the reaper. Ted couldn't understand it. It was inhuman. The baton struck two more times. "Come on," he heard her say. "Open up." When the reaper turned aside for a moment, she pulled back, doubled her grip on the baton, planted her feet and swung, two-handed. The baton struck the side of the reaper's torso and the ensuing crunch told Ted she'd crushed part of its carapace. The reaper's head finally unfolded, five jaws simultaneously swinging open to reveal the terrifying maw within and it roared a horrible, blood-curdling sound. Remarkably, the woman smiled and in the split second after the reaper's roar had ended, Ted heard the high-pitched whistle of charged electricity. He realized then what the woman was, and witnessed as she lazily struck the reaper one last time, touching her charged baton to the moist membrane inside its mouth. The reaper froze in an awkward, contorted position, before crumbling to the ground like an empty husk.

The entire fight had only lasted half a minute, but the impression it left on Ted was staggering. He stared at the reaper—the monster that haunted his nightmares, that destroyed the modern world, that slaughtered civilians who left the safety of the colonies—and stood in awe at the wreckage it had been reduced to by a single girl. As he watched, the reaper's chest rose and fell in labored breathing.

"It's not dead," he said, looking up at the woman. She stared back at him with striking blue eyes and sharp features. A chestnut brown ponytail curled out from beneath her black skullcap and her cheeks were freckled underneath the red flush from the cold. He pegged her at late-twenties, early-thirties.

"What are you doing here?" she asked impatiently. She looked him up and down. Ted was trying to understand how she wasn't out of breath when she added, "You're not supposed to be here. It isn't safe."

Ted stared openly at her, glancing once more at the reaper. "You're a Slayer," he said. When she didn't deny it, he nodded his head. "I've never seen anyone move like that. I've never met a Slayer who could take down a reaper in less than a minute."

Her expression was impassive. "You've never met me," she said simply.

Ted was quiet for a moment while he tried to piece together the situation. The Slayers were part of an elite guild sanctioned by the Authority to hunt and kill reapers. They were professional monster hunters and it was one of the most dangerous jobs. There were almost no female Slayers, except…

Ted looked at the unconscious reaper again, the oozing puncture in its torso from her baton, and the pieces fell together. He snapped back to her, eyes wide and disbelieving. "You're _Twelve_ ," he said in awe. The legendary Slayer—right in front of him.

She gazed at him for a few unblinking seconds, then turned away. Holding up her right hand, she pointed at a shiny black band around her wrist. A red light was rhythmically blinking from the center of the band. "The Authority will be here soon," she said flatly. "I suggest you return to your hiding spot." She lifted her chin toward the woods. Nothing in her tone suggested she had any interest in talking, so Ted turned around and walked back into the underbrush. Less than five minutes later, a black cargo truck eased into the parking lot. Ted watched five people get out. The main one, a man with dark, short hair and wearing a crisp suit, led the other four—all dressed in blue grunt overalls.

The woman showed no signs of the nervousness Ted would have felt face-to-face with the authority. The man in the suit appraised the reaper. He nudged it with the tip of his shiny shoe. The woman didn't move when the suit passed her, inspecting the stains in the snow. "What is this, B-positive?" his voice carried across the yard.

The girl hesitated and Ted watched the man turn to her, silently demanding an answer. She finally said, barely audibly, "O-negative."

The man's face broke into an unpleasant, triumphant grin and under his smug stare, the woman finally shrank a little. "Oh, you _are_ a piece of work," he laughed. He moved closer, standing just a few inches away from Twelve. He crossed his arms, bearing down on her with that menacing sneer. "Are you selling her blood yet?" Twelve made an involuntary movement and the man laughed. "Take it easy; I don't blame you. No one would," he chuckled darkly. For a long, uncomfortable minute, he studied her, then continued, "No, you're not selling. In fact, I bet no one even knows you have an O-neg ward. That would put her in too much danger. You'd have drainers kicking down the door." He exhaled loudly. Behind him, the grunts were taking measurements of the reaper and unrolling a narrow tarp next to its body.

The woman still hadn't made a sound. "You've cultivated a hell of an image," the man continued, the smile quickly vanishing from his lips. "Protector of the weak, unlikely heroine, femme fatale… _Twelve_. What would your fan club think of you draining a minor?"

She stared back at him unflinchingly. "Just give me my tokens, Thompson," she said.

With a look of disappointment, Thompson motioned to one of his workers. "Give her a token, Hank," he said.

A towheaded man directing the other three grunts as they dragged away the reaper turned to face his boss. He nodded respectfully and withdrew a large metal coin from a pouch on his belt, handing it to Twelve. After nodding again to Thompson, Hank joined the rest of the workers hauling the reaper to the truck.

" _One_ ," Twelve said incredulously. "You can't be serious, Thompson. I need at least two."

The suit openly laughed. "Then take out another Demogorgon," he mocked.

"You owe me at _least_ two for that one!" she replied, balling her fists at her side.

Thompson stopped laughing. "That was an adolescent," he said, moving uncomfortably close to her. "You want two? Take down an adult." He exhaled heavily from his nose and stepped back. "Shouldn't be a problem for you." He turned and walked away. Before reaching the parking lot, he called over his shoulder, "You could always sell a pint of that O-negative. I bet that would bring in an extra token." With a bark of laughter, he climbed into the truck as his workers finished loading the reaper.

Ted was already out of the woods when the truck was pulling out. He walked up to Twelve, but kept his eyes on the taillights as they vanished around the corner. In front of him, Twelve was flipping the token around in her palm. Her eyes were narrowed and lips pinched tightly.

"I can't believe I'm meeting you," he gushed. Despite the uncomfortable exchange that he'd just witnessed, Ted couldn't stop himself from grinning broadly. He tried to imagine what his son's reaction would be when Ted recounted the story tonight. Teddy was going to be so jealous. "You're the most well-known Slayer," he continued, excitedly.

Twelve looked at him without lifting her head, her icy eyes staring coolly as he practically bounced with enthusiasm. She snorted and shook her head.

Misreading her reaction, Ted pushed, "I'm serious; you're famous. You're a legend."

Twelve pocketed the token and faced him. "I'm not a Slayer," she said flatly. Before he could protest, she added, "There are no more Slayers." Ted looked at her confusedly and she changed the topic, motioning to the snowy gravel where the reaper had been. "What are you doing out here?" she asked. She nodded to his crowbar. "You're not going to take down a Demogorgon with that. You're just going to get yourself killed."

Ted felt embarrassed holding the cheap weapon in front of her. After witnessing a reaper's attack in real life he realized that she was right. The Slayers were trained to take reapers out and even Slayers didn't always survive a fight. He cleared his throat and replied sheepishly, "I needed a reaper. I figured I'd give it a try." Hearing himself mumble weakly, he added, puffing out his chest, "I'm strong. I'm a lumberjack." He raised his eyebrows. "It's hard work."

Twelve blinked a few times in silence. He noticed her bottom lip stuck out just a bit further than her top, giving her a slightly pouty look. "What are you going to do with a reaper?" she asked finally.

"There's a guy who will pay five tokens for a dead reaper," he explained. After a moment of stunned silence, he added, "Dead, but in good condition." Another few seconds of silence. He continued, "It's a black market kind of thing." Ted shrugged nonchalantly then wondered if he was saying too much.

Twelve's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What's the guy's name?" she asked.

Ted shuffled his feet uncomfortably. He'd never actually met the guy, but word travelled around the labor division—the network that needed black market trade most of all. He swallowed heavily and repeated the name he'd heard again and again: "Dustin."

She actually laughed and rolled her eyes. "Dustin!" she repeated. "Fucksake. Seriously? He's paying for dead reapers?"

Ted shrugged his eyebrows. Desperate to change topics, he pivoted the conversation. "What did you mean when you said there are no more Slayers?" he asked.

She dropped her eyes, looking at the melted spot where the reaper had lain before being collected. She hesitated before answering and when she finally responded, she seemed fed up. "You were the one who was surprised that I left it alive," she said motioning to the ground. "Well, that's what I meant. We don't _slay_ anymore. The term _Slayer_ is a bit of a misnomer since we're forbidden to kill the Demogorgons." She clenched her jaw and rolled her head agitatedly.

"Since when?" Ted asked. "I thought that was your job."

Twelve glared at the ground. "The job description changed," she said shortly. "The Authority wants them alive." She shook her head and smiled with the side of her mouth, tired of reliving the frustration. "Where can I find Dustin?" she asked, turning to the man. But she stopped short when he fell to his knees next to her. The crowbar toppled to the ground and he lurched forward, landing in the snow. In the back of his neck was a vivid orange dart.

Twelve took a step backward and cursed under her breath. The woods were suddenly alive with the grunts from earlier. She scanned the parking lot, but the truck wasn't there. They must have parked a street over. To her left, Thompson emerged from the trees, looking unbearably smug. His men were already collecting the unconscious man at her feet. Twelve took another step back, fighting the instinct to run. As usual, Thompson could read her every urge and actually stopped to chuckle at her discomfort.

She felt the pressure of her belt, the baton at her side. One hit and she could crush his skull. She shook her head. _Swallow your pride. Remember your priorities_. Thompson raised a single eyebrow at the man who was being dragged away. He _tsk_ ed her and spread his feet, planting himself between her and his workers. He was provoking her. He _wanted_ her to react. Twelve forced herself to relax, to unfurl her fists, unknot her core, drop her shoulders. She took a single deep breath and looked into Thompson's repulsive grey eyes.

"That was confidential information you were disclosing to a civilian," he said lazily. "That is not permitted and you know it."

Twelve felt a chill run down her spine. "Don't," she said suddenly. But she saw the purpose and contempt in his eyes. He loathed her as much as she did him. "Please don't," she pleaded, holding her hands up defensively.

He tipped his head and gave her a condescending smirk. "Strike Two, Wheeler."


	2. Chapter 2

Two

It was a long, cold walk home and Twelve barely lifted her head as she trudged through slush and frozen chunks of snow. The winters in their sector were some of the worst in the country, she'd heard. But the cold never truly bothered her and the snow made tracking easier.

Her foot hit a plowed path and she finally looked up to see that she'd reached Route 8-the main thoroughfare through the twenty-fourth colony. She stepped out onto the packed snow and continued west through an abandoned shopping strip. To her left was a movie theater, grocery store and beauty supply shop. To her right was a bowling alley and McDonald's. All of the windows had been shattered years ago and anything useful had been taken. Shells of cars still rotted in the parking lots, buried in dust and snow.

Twelve caught herself unconsciously toying with the single token she'd earned. She ran her index finger along the smooth edge and scowled, thinking about how Thompson seemed to know exactly how to get to her. She shouldn't have talked to that civilian, though. That was a stupid mistake. But to give her a strike for that! Twelve balled her fists and struck her hips a few times, trying to shake off the anger. The frustration still boiled inside, though, as she remembered him calling her "Wheeler." Of course he knew her background; he knew who she was. Thompson was her supervisor and a member of the Authority. He knew everything about everyone. That meant that he knew about _Nancy_ -a name only her closest friends and family referred to her as anymore. To everyone else, she was _Twelve_.

The name was something she'd adopted years ago, when the whole collapse had just begun. The summer of '84 was when the Demogorgons made their move. They emerged from their shadow dimension-the Upside Down-in force, leaving a path of slaughter and destruction in their wake. At the same time, the Upside Down erupted into the world, spreading from their small town in Indiana and consuming half of the country in weeks, rendering half of the living world a desolate wasteland-the Vale.

Nancy had escaped the Demogorgons and the spread of the Vale with her sister, Holly, and her brother's friend, Lucas. They traveled together for days, searching for survivors of the collapse and during their escape, they fought a Demogorgon. Nancy and Lucas fought together, but Nancy landed the killing blow-a feat they never thought possible. Afterward, Lucas compared her to Eleven-the preternaturally strong and telekinetically gifted child that disappeared while destroying the first Demogorgon to cross dimensions.

"You're like another Eleven," he'd said. "You're like Twelve." Nancy, having forced herself to stop mourning her past, was drawn to the prospect of a new identity. She clung to the idea and began forging herself anew around it. And so she became Twelve-the Demogorgon hunter.

Twelve kicked a chunk of ice out of her way and stuffed the token back into her pocket. She passed an old gas station and a bar with a sign that still hung precariously over the front door. "The Alibi" it said in faded red letters. Twelve-the Demogorgon hunter. She laughed sourly and shook her head. The new identity had been so promising. Now what was she? Another grunt for the Authority to order around? A pawn, like everyone else, barely getting through the day? She was a feeble shell of the person she should have become. And yet, everyone was fooled. Thompson's words rang in her head again: _What would your fan club think…_?

She ground her teeth and marched forward as a bitter wind picked up from the north. She was so engrossed in her own thoughts, she hadn't noticed the growling engine coming up from behind. Suddenly the truck was right next to her, idling loudly as it came to a stop. It was a vivid orange pickup with a faded _PennDOT_ stencil along the side. Twelve looked up as the passenger window rolled down and a hairy face peered across the seat at her. "Need a ride?" he asked through a puff of smoke. A hand-rolled cigarette dangled from his fingers as he rolled his palm over the steering wheel.

Twelve relaxed into a genuine smile. "Hop," she said happily. "Yeah, Chief, I'll take a ride."

He pinched the cigarette between his teeth and gave her a cheesy smile while leaning over to pop the door open. Twelve climbed in, noting the tarp-covered bed behind the cab. "What's the delivery?" she asked, pulling the door shut.

With a shrug, Hopper ticked off the contents on his fingers: "Couple crates of boots, hardware for that weak panel in the wall, bleach, Betty Crocker cake mix, Coke, margarita mix, cocktail onions…" He grinned at her and pulled his hat down before stepping on the gas. "Come on, kid," he laughed, blowing a mouthful of smoke through the crack in his window, "you know I never haul anything interesting." Twelve sighed and looked out the window as they passed old storefronts and apartments. It was a strip she was very familiar with, having walked Route 8 a few times every week to hunt, but she rarely got to see it from the window of a truck. Hopper was one of the few who enjoyed that vantage point on a daily basis. He'd traded in his badge eight years earlier when he joined the transportation division. Now he spent his workdays hauling supplies crosscountry, from colony to colony. It was considered a dangerous job, spending a considerable amount of time traveling through the Badlands, but Hopper seemed to enjoy the freedom.

"I'd love a margarita right now," Twelve sighed.

Hopper took a last pull from his cigarette and flicked it out the window. "Afraid I wasn't being entirely truthful about that," he said. "It's mostly tools and work clothes back there." He tipped his head to the bed of the truck. They eased down the road slowly. Chunks of ice pulled up from the plow left potholes that Hopper easily dodged, but the path was still bumpy and they moved along bouncing in their seats. Hopper looked at Twelve out of the corner of his eye, considering her for a second before reaching into the breast pocket of his overcoat. He withdrew a handsome metal flask and handed it to her. "It's not margarita," he said with a nod, "but it will warm you up."

Twelve took the flask and unscrewed the top. She regretted taking a sniff first, but still swallowed a mouthful and bit back the cough that scratched at her throat. It was pungent stuff, clear and tasteless, but powerful. As soon as the tickling disappeared from her throat, a warmth flooded her stomach and through her limbs. She felt her face flush and, despite the wretched smell, took one more swig before returning the flask.

"Bad day?" Hopper asked.

Twelve frowned and stared out the windshield. She prided herself on hiding her emotions, but there were still a few people in her life that could alway read her feelings-hidden or not. She gave a short nod and asked, "Where did you get the shine?"

Hopper smiled and took a sip. "Your old friend, actually," he replied. "Dustin."

Keeping a straight face, Twelve asked, "Where is he working out of these days?"

Hopper slowed as they got close to the bridge. In the distance, she could see the auto body shop on the corner that marked their turn. Keeping one hand on the wheel, he turned to her with his brows pulled low. "If you don't know the answer to that, then I don't suppose the two of you are very friendly anymore, huh?" he asked.

Twelve kept her eyes trained on the road. "We're out of touch is all," she replied briefly.

Hopper made a right turn onto the Water Street bridge and stopped the truck. "This is where I say goodbye," he said, tipping his hat.

"Appreciate the ride," she said as she pushed the door open and slid out. "And the drink," she added. "You should stop by sometime, you know? Holly would like to see you."

"Not enough hours in the day," Hopper said with a defeated look. "But, speaking of Holly, check in with Joyce. I left something with her for Holly." When Twelve gave him a confused look, he added, "Just something I found while I was out. Thought she might like it." He had a strained look in his face and turned away to light another cigarette.

He'd always been protective of the children in their community-like Joyce-but he lacked her ability to express compassion. So, while Joyce invested herself in the creation and expansion of the colony's orphanage, he escaped to the freedom of travel. Twelve always regretted the split in their romantic relationship, but appreciated their individual attempts to provide for the colony's children in need.

She shut the door and the truck lurched ahead, easing up to the colony's main gate. As two guards leisurely approached Hopper, Twelve slipped past along the sidewalk to the side door. Another short guard was standing in her path, smiling absentmindedly at a clipboard in his hands. His blue trousers were rolled at the ankles and tucked into his heavy winter boots and beneath the blue knitted cap pulled over his ears, a few wisps of brilliant orange hair stuck out. Twelve was just a couple feet away when he finally noticed her. He quickly pinned the clipboard against his chest, but not before she'd seen the comic book clipped to the front of it. His cheeks burned bright red, clashing with the orange of his eyebrows and spatter of freckles that covered his face. "Oh, uh, hey Twelve," he said with a crooked smile.

"Chris," she replied, smiling back pleasantly. She held out her hand, exposing the sleek black band around her wrist.

Chris dropped the clipboard to his side and reached across his belt to grab a handheld device that was strapped to his hip. A narrow red laser blinked from the device across her bracelet and a single chirp from the device registered her return. It reminded Twelve of the old barcode scanners in grocery stores.

"Any luck?" Chris asked, reholstering his scanner.

Twelve felt the lingering warmth of the shine and shrugged. "I got one," she said. Her eyes drifted to the clipboard. "What are you reading today?"

Chris gave her a dimpled, sheepish grin. "Batman," he admitted.

She liked Chris. Not all of the guards were as talkative or friendly. Some were more professional and rigidly stuck to protocol. Some let their positions inflate their egos and were just generally unpleasant. But Chris hadn't been with the Authority for very long. He was young-probably in his early twenties-and agreeable. This was the third time that she'd caught him reading a comic book. Something about it set her at ease and reminded her of her brother.

"Welcome back," he said, then unlocked the door and let Twelve into the twenty-fourth colony.


	3. Chapter 3

Three

Thirty-six colonies were all that remained of North America. They were spread out across the continent, but primarily occupied the narrow strip of land north of Indiana and south of Quebec. Old New England and the northwest were heavily colonized. In between, the less-populated colonies managed never-ending miles of crops and farmland.

The twenty-fourth colony occupied a small region in the northwestern corner of Pennsylvania and that's where most of Hawkins' survivors had settled after the evacuation in 1984. The colony was one of the smallest, with little more than twenty thousand residents, and primarily focused on logging and fishing for trades. The walls that circled the colony were fashioned out of reclaimed sheet metal from the old warehouses and industrial buildings that lined the streets of the city's downtown. Within the barrier, residential housing was set up in rings with the labor division on the outside, then the skilled workers, then the civil servants and finally the elite and the Authority living in the very center.

The entire setup was sold to the residents as a system of efficiency, but it was a thinly veiled social order. Even the walls were excused as a protective measure to keep the reapers out, but Demogorgons travelled through the two dimensions like parallel corridors. Physical barriers didn't stop them. The only reason why the reapers didn't invade the colonies was because of the heavy guard presence. They'd learned that it was too dangerous to breach the colonies. The walls weren't there to keep Demogorgons out. The walls were there to enforce curfew, to maintain order and guarantee control over the residents within.

Twelve, as a Slayer, had a home in the inner circle. She wasn't part of the Authority, but she worked for them and the Slayers were given elite status. She and the other nineteen Slayers in her colony didn't exactly fit in with the elite-high-level bureaucrats and powerful families. But Twelve suspected Slayers were awarded elite status because the job was so dangerous; most Slayers were dead or requesting transfers within the first six months. Elitism was a perk of the job and was meant to entice more applicants. Twelve couldn't say whether or not it worked. She'd stopped paying attention to the nonstop turnover of her associates after she'd watched enough of them die. It was better to distance herself from them than spend her life mourning their deaths. That was something she'd realized five years earlier when she first became a Slayer. Actually, it was something she'd learned the summer of '84 when she'd forced herself to learn how to close the door on the past.

* * *

Twelve didn't normally wait for the bus, but she felt sleepy from the alcohol and dejected from her confrontation with Thompson. So she stood at the base of the bridge, waiting for the bus to make its way over to her. She hung her head while she waited, trying to come up with a plan. The token she'd earned today would land them a week's worth of food-if they stretched the meals. But they needed other things, too-fuel, clothes, medicine. Twelve remembered Holly complaining about her headaches again earlier that morning. They needed aspirin and-Twelve pinched the bridge of her nose disgustedly-needles. They needed more needles. Twelve had already reused the syringe in her pocket too many times.

The bus hissed to a stop in front of her and Twelve climbed on, averting her gaze from the other passengers. She never wanted to be recognized, but least of all today. Sitting down in a bucket seat in the back, Twelve gazed out the fogged window and tugged her hat down lower, feeling the stares of a few nosy riders. The condensation had frozen in paper thin plates against the window and Twelve placed her fingers against, them, pushing them around the glass and letting the ice melt beneath her hand.

The inner circle was three miles from the gate, but it still took twenty minutes with all of the stopping and waiting along the route. At one stop, someone patted her on the back and when she looked up, Twelve recognized Flo-the secretary from the old Hawkins' police station. "Cheer up, dear," she said as she stepped off the bus. "This miserable weather won't last forever." She gave Twelve a wink and disappeared as the bus continued. Twelve smiled to herself.

She was still smiling when she arrived home-something Holly noticed as soon as she stepped in the door. "Good day?" Holly asked. She was sitting at the little round dinner table, but got up when she heard Twelve arrive. Tucking an elaborately braided piece of yarn into the book she was reading, Holly hurried over to the door to help Twelve remove her jacket and boots.

Holly had inherited their mother's softness and gentle nature. She was always available to help anyone at any time and was unwaveringly cheerful, even when Twelve lost hope—something that seemed to happen more often than not. Her blonde hair had grown out to a dusty auburn and her eyes were a remarkable greenish-blue. At fifteen, she was already a classic beauty and the spitting image of their mom. The resemblance still caught Twelve off guard, even after more than eleven years living together.

Holly pulled Twelve's coat off and, before turning to hang it on the old iron hook by the door, eyed the machete strapped to Twelve's back. "Still strapped in," she said, draping the jacket over the hook. "That's a good sign."

Twelve smiled over her shoulder. "I didn't have any issues," she told her sister. "I took out one reaper, easy-peasy, and came home." She unbuckled the belt that held the cutlass to her back. It was an old tool—hardly sharp anymore. She brought it with her on hunts as a backup, just in case anything went wrong. Leaving the house with just the baton seemed like a rookie mistake. But the machete wasn't technically allowed, so Holly had fashioned a holster that kept the knife secured to her back—within reach, but hidden beneath her coat.

"I saw Hopper," she mentioned. She was pulling off her boots and peeling away her hat when she remembered. "He said he got something for you."

Holly perked up. She had a close relationship with the old chief, even though they saw each other infrequently. Something about their personalities clicked when they spent time together—like a father-daughter relationship. Twelve suspected Hopper relished that feeling.

"He left it with Joyce," Twelve continued. "So, if you want to swing by there early this evening? Maybe after we pick up rations?" she asked, withdrawing the single token from her jacket.

"Definitely!" Holly replied, snagging the token from Twelve's outstretched hand. She spun it between her fingers and pursed her lips. "Just the one?" she asked. When her sister didn't respond, Holly pushed, "Is it Thompson again?"

Twelve avoided Holly's eyes. Instead, she slipped her feet into a pair of loose shoes and strode over to the table, running her finger across the cover of the novel Holly had been reading. "Jane Eyre?" she asked. "I feel like I read this one in high school. Rich guy, modest woman, crazy lady in the attic… Is that about right?"

Holly looked like she was considering bullying an answer out of Twelve, but rolled her eyes and said instead, "Well, I hadn't gotten to the crazy lady in the attic yet, but thanks for the spoiler, sis."

That's when Twelve spotted the syringe in Holly's hand. She'd fished it out of her coat pocket in the entryway. Streaks of red still clung to the sides of the tube. Holly rolled up her sleeves and dropped it in the sink where a few dishes were soaking in lightly steaming water. As Holly wiped off the plates and cups and syringe, Twelve noted the ugly bruises and purple speckles that lined Holly's arms from the crooks of her elbows to the delicate skin along the underside of her wrists. Another bruise for every needle.

"How's your headache?" she asked.

Holly looked over her shoulder and smiled. "Good," she lied.

* * *

They'd barely knocked once when a young child answered the door, swinging it open widely for them to see the corridor behind him.

"We're looking for Miss Byers," Twelve said politely to the boy.

He spun around shyly and darted away, disappearing into one of the classrooms between rows of lockers. Twelve cleared her throat and walked inside, pulling the door shut behind them.

"He looked new," Holly said with a little smile. Her eyes sparkled as she looked down the hall at the sound of children's voices.

Twelve bobbed her head, smiling. "He did," she agreed. "Hey, why don't you go spend some time with the kids and I'll sit down with Joyce for a few?" Holly barely hesitated before hurrying off toward the art room—the largest room in the corridor and where the kids spent most of their time.

The old middle school had been altered to accommodate Joyce and the kids. Most of the school was closed off to minimize heating loss, so they occupied the northern end of the building, taking advantage of about seven classrooms and a few offices. Overall it was more than thirty orphans—ages newborn to seventeen—and just Joyce to care for them all. But Twelve couldn't recall a single time she'd complained.

She tapped her knuckles on the painted brown metal door of the break room at the end of the hallway. A few classrooms down, she heard Holly's voice through the laughter of the kids. "It's open," came Joyce's familiar voice. Twelve pushed open the door and found Joyce sitting at a table with a ledger open in front of her. A pile of papers and folders were stacked against the wall and Joyce shut the ledger, filing it on top of the pile.

She took a deep breath and folded her hands, dropping her shoulders wearily as she exhaled. "Nancy," she said.

Twelve smiled absently at the stack of papers. Joyce was one of the few people who still referred to her as Nancy, and the name didn't bother her, but being around Joyce always made her uncomfortable. Neither one of them had discussed the unresolved issues between them, but there was a connection between Joyce's loss of her sons and Twelve. Neither incident was her fault, exclusively, but Twelve had been involved in both disappearances.

Eleven years earlier, Jonathan had been hiking through the woods with Twelve when they were separated and he sacrificed himself to the reapers to save her life. She'd never entirely gotten over that day and was never able to completely forget Jonathan, but she closed that part of herself years ago and vowed to let it sink until it disappeared.

Then, five years ago, right before she'd qualified as a Slayer, a fully matured Demogorgon had breached the dimensions in the colony. It had materialized a couple miles inside of the barrier and the few guards on patrol were no match for it. Within minutes, the guards were incapacitated and two more smaller reapers had appeared. Twelve joined Will Byers—a fully qualified Slayer at just eighteen—to take them down. They fought for what felt like forever. A crowd formed around them, cheering their strikes and throwing rocks at the reapers. At some point, Twelve was left alone to fight the adult herself. He was over ten feet tall and merciless. The crowd peeled away terrified of the huge monster and, even with her speed, Twelve could barely deflect its blows. When she began to flag and her movements slowed, someone from the dispersing crowd lobbed a guard's baton and struck the Demogorgon. In its moment of confusion, Twelve snatched the baton, charged it and shocked the reaper. It was too large to immobilize completely with a single charge, but instead of shocking it again, she took advantage of its weakened state and plunged her machete into its head, killing it.

The crowd burst into cheers around her and, in the confusing uproar, no one noticed the other two reapers disappear, taking Will Byers with them.

Twelve could never be accused of directly contributing to either loss, but there was a vague implication of fault that neither Twelve nor Joyce could fully shake and though her relationship with Holly was strong, Joyce's exchanges with Twelve were always terse.

"Do you have a minute," she asked from the doorway.

Joyce stared back at Twelve, waiting to hear more before inviting her in. She clasped her hands on the table and pressed her lips together. On the other side of the room, the radiator hissed and ticked loudly as the boiler kicked on.

"I need a favor," Twelve admitted.

Joyce tipped her head impatiently. "You know I'm not in a position to-"

"It's not for me," Twelve interrupted. "It's for Holly."

Joyce pulled her hands apart and leaned forward slowly. Twelve tipped her head to the right. "She's here, actually, playing with the kids," she explained. "I'm sure she'll stop in and say hi when she's finished."

Joyce actually smiled. "Your sister has a gift with these kids," she said. Her expression softened and she gestured to the open seat in front of her. "Speaking of Holly, I have some drawing pads around here that Hopper dropped off for her the other day."

"He mentioned something about that," Twelve said as she took the open seat.

Joyce pulled open a cupboard behind her and withdrew two pads of sketch paper and a pack of charcoal pencils still sealed in the box. She pushed them across the table to Twelve and sat back down. "What's the favor?"


	4. Chapter 4

Four

"Thompson gave you a second strike," Joyce said quietly. She frowned, staring out the window as Twelve's story sunk in. Finally she shook her head. "I never liked that guy."

Twelve chewed her lip, thinking back to the satisfied look he'd worn while giving her the strike. Thompson had been looking for any excuse to strike her-that much she knew-and he was within his rights to reprimand her for discussing Authority business with a civilian, but a strike was the severest punishment dealt and it was highly unusual to be used as a penalty for her lapse in judgement. The punishment didn't fit the crime. Though, it rarely did.

Twelve received her first strike five years earlier, the day the reapers breached the walls. By the time the Authority arrived in force, she'd already killed the Demogorgon and was standing over it, machete in one hand and baton in the other. The entire scene was a complete mess: rocks littered the ground; half of the colony surrounded the area while the guards' unconscious bodies lay forgotten around the perimeter; one Slayer taken and a twenty-five year old girl standing triumphantly in a puddle of blood. It was an embarrassment for the Authority and they lashed out, giving Twelve her first strike in front of an audience of thousands. She was charged with theft and use of a restricted weapon for having shocked the Demogorgon with the guard's baton—a weapon that was strictly wielded by the Authority and Slayers. Since Twelve wasn't a Slayer yet and the baton came from an unconscious guard, she had no argument. But when the punishment was announced, the audience's boos quickly transformed to her name and everything else was drowned out by the resounding chant: _Twelve! Twelve! Twelve!_

She was out of chances now and an entire colony of chanting supporters couldn't help her if Thompson decided to give her the final strike. If he did, she'd be banished from the colonies immediately and forced to live in the Badlands—the reaper hunting grounds. It was a death sentence for most people. For Twelve, it meant severing all contact with the only person that mattered in her life—Holly.

"He's got it out for me, Joyce," Twelve said, leaning over the table and lowering her voice. "He wants me gone and he has that power."

Joyce pressed her lips together and gave Twelve an apologetic look. "Transfer jobs," she suggested.

Twelve nodded. "I'm picking up an application tomorrow," she agreed. "But after getting food today, we're out of tokens."

Joyce held out her empty hands. "I don't have any…"

"No, no," Twelve said quickly. "I'm not asking for tokens. I'm just saying… I have to go out again and hunt. I have to keep earning until the transfer goes through." Next to her, the radiator hissed loudly and heat rolled off of it. She felt a trickle of sweat snake down her neck, then a flush across her whole body. Unbuttoning her hooded sweatshirt, she peeled it off and draped it over the back of her chair. "If Thompson is dead set on striking me out," she continued, then stopped when she saw Joyce staring blankly at Twelve's forearm. In a single column along the stretch of pale skin was a tattooed list of names: "Barb; Ted; Karen; Mike; Steve…" Will's name was toward the bottom of the list and, set apart from the others, scrawled in script across her wrist was "Jonathan." Twelve cupped her hand over the script and pulled her arms beneath the edge of the table. She took a deep breath and looked across into Joyce's wide, brown eyes. "If Thompson strikes me out before I have time to transfer," she continued, still clutching Jonathan's name beneath the table, "Holly will be evicted and she'll have nowhere to live."

Joyce glanced at the table, where Twelve's arms were hidden, then looked back up with the same indiscernible gaze. "If you strike out," she said, "Holly will leave the colony looking for you. There's no way she'd stay; you know that."

"She can't do that," Twelve replied curtly.

"Then don't give Thompson a reason to issue the third strike," Joyce said.

Twelve laughed disparagingly. "I'm not planning on pissing the guy off," she argued. "Trust me; I'm not here because I _want_ to be banished." She felt a boiling tension easing in her chest as she vented. "Don't mistake anything I've done this past decade as more than a means to provide for Holly. I'm not feeding my ego or entertaining my _fan club_ ," she angrily spit out the term Thompson had used. "I'm trying to keep Holly alive."

Her last words echoed eerily against the bare walls.

Joyce studied Twelve for a few uncomfortable seconds before asking, "What aren't you telling me?"

Twelve deflated after the outburst, sinking into her chair. "I need you to take Holly," she said finally, staring at Joyce's shoulder, deliberately avoiding those searching eyes. "If anything happens to me, I need to know she's safe. Please…"

Joyce's brows knit and she reached out, but Twelve kept her hand clasped against her wrist, beneath the table. "Nancy?" Joyce asked.

Twelve lifted her head. "Holly is O-negative," she admitted. "You can't tell anyone," she insisted. It was bad enough that Thompson knew. If word got out…

The fact that reapers were drawn to fresh blood was well-known. It was a technique she and Jonathan had used on the very first Demogorgon years ago. But, as it turned out, they were drawn to certain blood types more than others and O-negative was, by far, the most potent lure for drawing out reapers. During the collapse of '84, an estimated 95 percent of people with O-negative blood type in North America was hunted and killed. Now the carriers were almost non-existent.

If the wrong people found out that Holly had O-negative blood, they'd drain her and sell her blood on the black market to Slayers or anyone else willing to pay. Or, if Holly was evicted and ended up having to take a job outside of the walls—she'd be snatched by a reaper on the first day. If word got out, it meant Holly's life.

"Promise me you won't tell anyone," Twelve repeated.

"I won't," Joyce promised. She tilted her head, looking sideway at Twelve and asked curiously, "Have you been using her blood?"

Twelve averted her eyes and made noncommittal gesture.

"Why don't you use your own?" Joyce asked sharply.

"I'd love to," Twelve replied, looking back at Joyce imploringly. "But the reapers haven't been drawn to my blood since the infection." She hiked her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the thick, rope-like scar that lined the length of her back where she'd been clawed by a Demogorgon eleven years earlier.

Joyce scrunched her eyebrows. "Why?" she asked.

Shrugging, Twelve replied, "Dunno. It was the same for Lucas, though."

They lapsed into silence. The radiator gurgled and echoed metallic rattles from the boiler below. Through the door, Twelve could just make out the shrill giggles of young children down the hallway. She ran her thumb absentmindedly across her wrist where the cursive letters of Jonathan's name were still raised slightly from the tattoo. Joyce chewed her thumbnail and watched out the window where pinprick snowflakes were gently falling.

"Joyce," Twelve said softly. "I know you've lost a lot—"

"Don't…" Joyce cut in, but Twelve spoke over her.

"I know you've lost a lot," she repeated. "So you've got to understand. My mom and dad are dead. My brother's gone. All of my friends either disappeared or died in my arms. Holly is _it_ for me." She leaned over, imploring. "For the last ten years, everything I've done has been for her safety. If I can't secure her safety after I'm gone, then it will all have been for nothing." She hesitated a moment, then stretched her arms back out on the table, the names of the dead and lost cascading across her skin.

Joyce's eyes lingered on the names of her sons; then she looked up. "If anything happens to you," she said, meeting Twelve's eyes, "I'll keep Holly here. I'll keep her safe."


	5. Chapter 5

Five

It was harder in the winter to get good food. For some of the lower level workers, it could be hard to get _any_ food. The distribution centers in the colony's outer rings always seemed to run out of food before the people ran out of tokens. Fortunately for Twelve and Holly, they were in the center of the colony and their distribution center never ran out of supplies for the elite. The food may have been lower quality in the frozen months, but it was still available.

That evening they had a thin turkey soup with strips of stringy meat and diced potatoes, and hunks of chewy brown bread on the side. While they sat at the old wooden dinner table, spoons clinking against the ceramic bowls, Twelve considered what job division she would apply for: fishing and hunting? At least then she could continue to leave the colony's walls and have a bit of freedom. But that would land them in the outer ring and as much as she didn't care for watery broth with a few bites of meat for dinner, it was better than nothing. She stretched out her legs and planted her feet on the table's ornately carved pedestal. It was one of a number of remarkable pieces of furniture in their home—all waiting for them when they moved in.

Twelve fished around in her pocket and placed a single colorless pill next to Holly's bowl.

"What's this?" Holly asked, lightly flicking one end of the pill so that it spun like a top.

"Multivitamin," Twelve answered. She took a bite of bread and in between chewing, explained, "Joyce thinks your headaches are from an iron deficiency. She gave me three. You'll want to take one a day."

"Iron deficiency?" Holly asked, holding the pill between her index finger and thumb.

Twelve shrugged. "It's not really uncommon around here, especially with women." When Holly gave her a skeptical look, she added, "It's probably the diet." She decided not to share the other cause. Regular bloodletting was an enormous factor in Holly's health, according to Joyce, but Twelve could barely stomach the realization that _she_ was to blame, let alone say it out loud.

"I'm supposed to take one every day?" Holly asked, tossing back the pill with a gulp of water.

Twelve cleared her throat. "Yeah…" She looked sheepishly at her sister. "I know I was going to try to take a break for a few days, but I'm going to head out again tomorrow. We could really use a couple tokens and I'll be able to get more vitamins, plus some aspirin." Holly gave her a discouraged look. "I promise," Twelve assured her. "After this I'll take a little time off."

Holly took the last bite of her bread and pushed away from the table. "I'll prepare the syringe," she said stoically, carrying her dishes to the sink.

"No," Twelve replied immediately. When Holly turned, Twelve scrambled for an explanation. "The reapers have been pretty active lately," she said. "I'm fine without the… lure." Holly gave her an incredulous look and Twelve insisted, "It's fine, _really_."

* * *

The house was fully furnished when they moved in. They were only the second people to live there—post-collapse, of course. The original owners were gone. It was just another haunted house in a ghost town with photos of strangers hanging on the walls. The house was first assigned to a low-level bureaucrat that transferred himself out of the twenty-fourth colony after two years. For another few years, the house was vacant. Then Twelve was approved as a Slayer and they moved in to find a home full of ornate mirrors and crown molding, fine China and original wallpaper. The piano was a really rare find.

Twelve never had a creative bone in her body. She was always the analyst, overcomplicating everything. But Holly was gifted with the arts. She drew; she read; she even sang sometimes when she didn't think anyone was listening. And when they'd discovered a massive, two-story library less than a mile away, Twelve made it her priority to locate some books on playing the piano. She found tutorials and mountains of sheet music and that was all Holly needed to dive into a world of forgotten melodies.

Long after the sun had set that evening and the fire cast an orange glow across the room, Holly settled down and played Debussy's "Clair de lune." The notes, little petals of sound, drifted around them and sometime during the sweet tune, Twelve fell asleep in the chaise lounge next to the piano.

When she woke, it was early morning. Holly was upstairs in bed and the sun was just on the cusp of the horizon. It was time for Twelve to head out. She cut off another hunk of the brown bread and poured herself a big glass of water, washing down each crusty bite. Her boots slid on easily and she carefully wound the laces all the way up her shin, securing them tightly at the top. She buckled the machete across her back and pulled on her coat. Her hat and fingerless gloves were lying in a pile on the second step of the staircase and after she'd slipped them on, she clipped her belt around her waist, feeling the familiar heft of her baton. She'd almost stepped out the door when she remembered the vitamins still stuck in her pants' pocket. Scooping them out, she deposited the two pills on the dinner table and froze when she saw the syringe. It was full, sitting on top of a white sheet of paper. Twelve picked up the syringe and saw the words beneath, written in the new charcoal pencil Holly had gotten: _Good Luck_.

Twelve pressed her fingers to her mouth and wrinkled her brow, staring at her sister's handwriting. She touched the paper, then stuffed the syringe in her pocket and walked out the door.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Sorry about the delay posting this. The holidays were slowing me down and this is a long chapter. But thank you for the follows, faves and feedback! It is so appreciated!

* * *

Six

She turned left out the front door, heading west today instead of winding her way to the usual east gate. She passed the bluffs, through the second circle, then cut across Frontier Park into the third circle. The road veered north, toward the peninsula. Twelve moved at a fast clip, but the distance wasn't short—ten miles—and it would take her a few hours to arrive. While she moved, she kept her head down to avoid being recognized by other passersby. It was sunrise and the laborers were streaming out of the colony: lumberjacks, mechanics, construction workers, transporters, and on and on. One woman in a white hardhat actually stopped and stared at Twelve while she passed, but no one else seemed to notice.

The thin layer of snow that fell overnight was shimmering brilliantly in the rising sun and though Twelve's breath still came in thick, white puffs, the crisp glow felt deceptively warm. She kept her hands in her pockets to spare her exposed fingers the bitter cold and as she walked, she curled her fingers guiltily around the syringe.

At the northwest gate, she met a guard she wasn't familiar with and he was all business. He gruffly scanned her wristband, inspected her baton, reminded her to return before nightfall and reported no sightings since his shift began at oh-three-hundred hours. Throughout the whole exchange, he didn't make eye contact once and made no indication that he recognized her. When he was finished, Twelve nodded and breezed past.

At the next intersection, she took a sharp right and the road sloped down so that the wall faded into the distance in no time. A couple signs still stood along the shoulder, advertising the state park—a ten-mile finger of land jutting into Lake Erie. She passed a trailer park on her right and just beyond an enormous parking lot on her left, a winding wooden roller coaster emerged. Over the hill, the majestic arch of a massive Ferris wheel stood proudly against the winter sky, unmoving for the past decade, but still standing vigil over the park.

It was another half mile before Twelve finally reached the mouth of the peninsula. She'd only been there once before, but the road had no outlets so it was impossible to get lost. She took the left lane and headed toward the beaches. There wasn't any particular reason why Twelve decided to go to the peninsula to hunt, but she didn't regret it. If this was going to be her last hunt—and that was the plan—she couldn't have picked a more beautiful location.

Her feet sunk into the sand as she picked her way up a sharp embankment and crossed the beach. Without the barrier of the trees, a harsh wind cut through her coat and whipped the little feathery wisps of hair that stuck out from beneath her hat. The shore was a mix of fine sand and gravel, frozen enough to help her walk steadily, but still loose enough that her toes sunk in with each step. She zigzagged past bleached driftwood and tangles of frozen seaweed, admiring the lake. The top was frozen in massive chunks that rose and fell hypnotically with the waves beneath.

Twelve pulled out the syringe. This was as good a spot as any. Securing the base with her middle and index fingers, she planted her thumb on the plunger and shot five consecutive streams of blood—100 milliliters total. After it was empty, Twelve wrapped the syringe in her fist, marched over to the edge of the water and hurled it as far as she could. She meant for the gesture to relax her nerves and symbolize the turning point in her and Holly's lives. But it just felt like another hollow conviction.

The splashes of blood barely receded into the sand, standing out against the frosty shore like a gruesome landmark. The blood, Twelve realized, was all over the Badlands. Every place she'd hunted in the past few years had a stain of Holly's blood to mark the occasion. Twelve swallowed thickly as she stared in a trance at the splashes. On the surface, she felt the hint of guilt and shame that would tear her down later, but beneath that, she was shifting to a meditative state.

Over a decade earlier, she'd been attacked by a Demogorgon and was left with a disfiguring laceration down the left side of her back—from shoulder blade to hip. In the twenty-four hours that followed, she almost died from the venom. After recovering, the infection altered her. She was stronger, faster, required less food, and was less affected by temperature shifts. She was also more aggressive, short-tempered, protective, and territorial. And, perhaps most importantly, she'd developed an ability to detect the movements and temperament of nearby reapers. The attack that left the scar on her back was the reason for the change, she knew that. There was a part of that Demogorgon still coursing through her. Because of that, she was never entirely able to reconcile the benefits of her infection with the fact that she wasn't convinced she was still wholly human.

Twelve only knew of two other people who sustained similar injuries: Lucas and Steve. Lucas survived. Steve didn't. She could never explain why a healthy eighteen-year-old died from the same injury, when a terrified twelve-year-old didn't.

But that was ancient history. They were both in her past and she closed the doors to her past.

In the present, Twelve was slipping deeper into the expanding calm of her mind. This was another side effect of the infection. It emerged more gradually over the years, as she began facing reapers on a regular basis. Each consecutive fight, she found herself shifting into a stronger trance. The meditation took over her body's fight-or-flight response, replacing the anxiety of an encounter with an intense calm. When she entered the state, she detached almost completely from her personal life and became a being of unalloyed impulse and survival.

In the endless ocean of calm, she felt a twinge in her back and a myoclonic spasm jerked the length of her scar. Twelve opened her eyes, orienting herself to the left, where she felt another tug from deep inside. She watched the air ripple in front of the lake, like a sheet of thin fabric being twisted and stretched. Holding out her hand, Twelve pressed a tiny button on the side of her black wristband. A red light began blinking from beneath its glossy surface. Thompson would arrive in five to ten minutes. Twelve pulled her baton loose. Plenty of time.

The dimension tore thirty feet away. It pulled apart in stretchy strips, rending reluctantly behind the clawed fingers of a hungry Demogorgon. Twelve took a deep breath and steadied herself as the last of the portal was slashed away and the reaper stepped out. Her trance faltered in the long shadow of the creature. It had been at least two years since she'd faced a fully matured Demogorgon, and yet one had just materialized in front of her. Upright, it was probably close to twelve feet tall with a powerful, muscular body and heavy, plated carapace. It crept forward slowly, crouching heavily on its haunches as it wove its head blindly through the air, sniffing out the blood and identifying Twelve. She didn't move, waiting for it to come to her, the baton resting heavily in her hand. Sand shifted in mounds beneath each jarring footfall and behind the reaper, Twelve could just see the tattered filaments of the portal weaving themselves shut. Twenty-five feet... twenty... fifteen… When the Demogorgon was ten feet away, it finally stopped. Twelve held her position, ignoring the wash of sweat that suddenly travelled the length of her body, like a chill. She didn't turn away, didn't blink, didn't breathe. Let it attack first. That had always been her method. But its hesitation concerned her.

She counted the seconds painfully, waiting for the reaper's move, hating the slow, filtering hiss of its deliberate sniffing. Then, with a long inhale, the reaper's jaws cracked open a sliver and the unnerving rattle of its guttural growl was just barely drowned out by the clicking nicker in the deep of its throat. Ignoring the rest, Twelve focused on the slow spread of its jaws and twisted the base of her baton, reminding herself that it would probably take more than one shock to bring this monster down.

By the time she registered the missing hum of a charge from her baton, the reaper had already thrown open all five jaws and released an earth-shattering roar. Twelve took the first swipe in stride, knocking aside its clawed reach with a sharp strike of the baton. She twisted the handle again forcefully, but the charge didn't come. A second swipe followed and Twelve spun aside to dodge it, but a single talon hooked the fringe of her hat, ripping it off her head. Caught off guard, Twelve stumbled backwards. _Fast_! This reaper was incredibly fast. It was airborne, falling overhead, its slick black hide glinting in the snow's reflection. Twelve rolled away, barely avoiding its crushing body. She scrambled backward on all fours, suddenly unable to find purchase in the icy sand. The Demogorgon had landed on the blood and for a moment, was entranced by its aroma, giving Twelve the time she needed to stand herself up and race over the beach and back to the road.

She cranked the handle of the baton one more time, but the whistle of electricity never came. She was carrying a broken weapon, nothing more. Her feet struck the pavement and she scanned the road. Thompson should be on his way. Any minute. She double checked her wristband. The red light still blinked promisingly. A surge ran up her back again and she turned to find the Demogorgon mounting the crest of the sandy embankment and charging down to meet her. Twelve braced herself a second time, pulling back the baton to fight. The red light blinked against her wrist and at the last second, she reconsidered and tore away from the reaper. She needed Thompson to arrive. Without an electric charge, she couldn't immobilize the Demogorgon.

They raced down the road, Twelve barely staying ahead of the reaper. More sand dunes and worn beach signs passed on their right. Concrete restrooms and collapsing pavilions passed on their left. After a couple minutes of sprinting, Twelve took a quick left into a dirt parking lot. Behind her, the Demogorgon's frustrated roar shook the trees, but its thunderous footsteps quickly fell in behind her and Twelve kept pushing forward. She checked her wrist again, but the blinking continued without sight of Thompson. The parking lot opened up to a parallel road on the other side of the peninsula. Twelve darted out and took another sharp left before veering off of the road and into the trees. Behind her, branches cracked and the hardened shell that coated the snowfall shattered loudly.

She leapt over a rotten log and as a spray of pine needles brushed her cheek, was reminded of a similar chase twelve years earlier. She was running away from a Demogorgon, racing through the woods of Hawkins as fast as she could, ignoring mind-numbing fatigue and pain. She wasn't fast enough then. That was the day she was attacked. The reaper caught up to her and tore open her back and she would have died then and there if it hadn't been for Jonathan showing up at the last minute. Now, as she flew through the woods, she instinctively touched the underside of her wrist where the tattoo was hidden by her sleeve. Who was she waiting to save her this time? Thompson?

With that single thought in mind, Twelve burst from the woods to a clearing in front of an old, rusty lighthouse. She dropped the baton and simultaneously released the machete from beneath her coat. With a seamless single-toed spin, she planted herself to face the oncoming reaper.

She wasn't waiting for anyone this time.

It emerged from the trees at a full charge and Twelve crouched, pulling back the machete for a strike. When the reaper was a few feet away, she swung, lunging to the left and dragging her entire weight against the swing. The tip of the machete barely made contact as the Demogorgon pivoted away. But its spiked claws struck her from behind, driving a blinding pain through her right side. Twelve rolled away and pushed herself to a kneeling position, clamping her arm tightly against her throbbing ribs. The machete slipped a little from her grip, making a light _ticking_ sound as it touched the ice crusted snow at her feet.

The reaper slouched forward, lazily, facing off with her again. Twelve's trance faltered a second time as she sensed the unsettling excitement rolling in waves off of the Demogorgon. Its jaws were slack with strings of mucus hanging between them and its skin shone an incandescent black in the morning light. Twelve focused on stilling her mind. She ignored the pain in her side and stood up, spreading her feet and pulling back the machete.

Without warning, the Demogorgon lunged and though Twelve rolled, she came up to find herself in direct combat with the reaper. Moving faster than ever before, she parried its blows, the machete's metal clicking faintly with each strike. It was more powerful and faster than any reaper she'd ever faced and her offensive strategy was rapidly turning into a defensive approach. She used the reaper's own force to deflect its attacks, maneuvering between strikes. But she was being pushed backwards, toward the dock and barely had time to react to its blows, let alone counter with her own attack. In her rapid movements, the blinking red of her wristband swirled like a laser, reminding her that she was alone.

Her right foot stepped back and met a sheet of ice. She stumbled and the reaper sprang forward, its jagged teeth tearing at the air. Twelve let herself fall, but didn't drop fast enough to avoid the razor-tipped cusp of the reaper's jaw as it raked across her left cheek. Before she hit the ground, the Demogorgon's claws swept in a powerful arc, catching her below her left jaw and tossing her like a ragdoll.

She was dazed and felt the immediate heat and wetness of blood against her neck, but she'd been thrown aside from the blow and, seizing her opportunity, dug into the wet snow, propelling herself past the Demogorgon. She sprinted, machete still held tightly in her right hand, focusing on the slender strip of black sitting in the snow ten yards away. Behind her she felt the Demogorgon's rousing aggression, but she was already diving, wrapping her left hand desperately around the baton and rolling up to face the empty road. Her meditation broke. Fear punctured her—crippled her—as death loomed. It was too strong, too old, too fast. This was one of the first Demogorgons, one of the original creatures of darkness from the Vale of Shadows.

Time was gone. Twelve had to act. Arching her back, Twelve spun as quickly as she could, holding her hands out so the machete and baton swung at arm's length. She turned, like a discus thrower, relying on the momentum of her movement to strengthen her blow and on the second dizzying spin, the Demogorgon was within reach and she brought down the centrifugal force of her double-fisted weapons against the reaper's torso with a satisfying crunch. The reaper doubled over, shrieking horrifically, but Twelve didn't hesitate. She brought down a second blow, dropping her body's weight into the impact, crippling the reaper's left leg and grounding it to a writhing half-kneel. With its gaping jaws finally at her level, Twelve lifted the machete high over her head and as the Demogorgon let loose one last peeling roar, she dropped her arm and lodged the blade deep into its skull.

A consuming silence filled the peninsula and the Demogorgon collapsed into the snow.

Twelve waited a full minute before the shock ebbed and the world seemed to unfold before her as she'd left it—mid-morning, with an opalescent blue sky, nearby twitter of birds, the briefest suggestion of wind, the crackle of ice thawing in the early sun's rays and the _tick-tick-tick_ of blood dripping like a metronome from Twelve's left hand. She forced her fingers to relax and the baton dropped like a rock from the sticky curve of her palm.

She was walking forward without realizing it, the impetus of the battle propelling her movement while her consciousness sluggishly registered what had happened. Standing at the Demogorgon's broad shoulders, Twelve squared her feet and, with a solid tug, removed the machete from its flesh. She was staring at the blackish blood that smeared the curve of the blade's tip—so similar to the cascade that ran from the gashes in her own jaw—when a panicked wheezing disrupted her thoughts. It took a moment to place the sound, but as she fell to her knees she realized the gasping was coming from her—a singularly terrifying noise. She tried to level her breathing, while pawing frantically at the cuts below her jaw. Her fingers came back slick with blood and she began shaking uncontrollably as everything came into focus.

The brittle crunch of ice brought her attention to a dark figure standing a few yards away. His long black coat fluttered in the light breeze, tugging gently on the crisp blue suit he wore beneath. Thompson lazily scanned the scene with a vaguely intrigued expression.

Twelve's breathing increased again, wheezing hysterically in her chest as she stared at his freshly pressed suit and indolent gaze while she knelt in slush and blood, her jaw in shreds and her composure destroyed.

"Where were you?!" she cried, her gasps reaching a labored pitch. "I paged you!" She held up her wrist band as the first tears squeezed out of the corners of her eyes.

"What _have_ you done?" Thompson asked in a soft, dangerous voice.

Panic built inside Twelve as she struggled to explain herself, like a child caught misbehaving. "My baton's broken," she said, frantically. "It wouldn't charge. I had no choice!" She ended, out of breath, still on her knees. " _I had no choice_ ," she repeated, emphasizing every word.

Behind him, Thompson's crew was forming. They crowded next to him, like minions, waiting for his command.

"Under the Authority's regime," Thompson stated, robot-like, "it is illegal to poach a Demogorgon without compelling reason."

Twelve shouted, "My baton is—"

"As you have provided no justification for your actions," Thompson continued, a smile playing at the corners of his lips, "I hereby issue your third and final stri—"

Before he could finish, Twelve jumped up with a roar and charged him, pulling back the machete. She'd kill him. She'd kill them all and dump their bodies in the bay with the reaper's. There was nothing left to lose.

A second before she'd reached Thompson and delivered the satisfying blow, one of his lackeys stepped forward and jabbed the blunt end of a charged baton into her diaphragm. Twelve's muscles seized and shuddered, and a pitiful moan escaped from her lips. She landed on her knees, hard, but something kept her from staying down. Her joints were stiff and her body screamed in agony, but she was blind to everything except Thompson and his satisfied sneer. She crumpled her fist around the machete and leapt to her feet.

"Hit her again," Thompson instructed and a second wave of electricity washed across Twelve's body, flattening her again and leaving her to twitch in the snow. Thompson took a step back and called over his shoulder, "Hank, mark her."

Twelve heard Thompson's words and they cut her with an icy chill. "No," she mumbled, drawing herself weakly from the ground. She barely noticed the bloody smear left behind in the snow as she fumbled for her machete and stood one more time. Her legs jerked bizarrely, but when she lifted her head to see that blond grunt walking toward her with a branding rod, something clicked inside and she shifted into her fighting trance. "No!" she yelled, turning her attention to Hank. She reeled back to strike him down, not noticing the two workers that had slipped behind her.

Hank didn't slow his approach as Twelve was struck with another shock from behind. She dropped to one knee, still holding onto her machete and grinding her teeth, ignoring the convulsive fluttering of her eyelids.

"Again," Thompson's voice floated from somewhere and a charging pain drove into the back of Twelve's neck until, finally, the machete dropped. Her leg was kicked out so she was forced to both knees and the two grunts behind her each grabbed a wrist, twisting them back and placed their hands against her locked elbow to force her head down.

"Nancy Wheeler," Thompson's voice rose again, "I hereby strip you of all titles, ranks, and privileges designated by the Authority." Twelve jerked her shoulders, vainly trying to pull herself free, but her strength was shot. Thompson continued, "Your rights as a colony agent and citizen are forthwith revoked and you are banished from all thirty-six Authority-held colonies, under penalty of death. All property owned…"

His voice was drowned out by Twelve's cry as she tugged and twisted against the tight grips that restrained her. Hank stepped in front of her, holding the brand before her face and she smelled the singe of hot metal. With a surge, she dug her feet into the ground and jerked her shoulders, whipping her head around. She growled and screamed a hoarse, desperate cry, but the last grunt was next to Hank and he grabbed Twelve's hair, pulling it roughly to the side, drawing Twelve's head to her shoulder and extending her neck.

Twelve's cries transformed to a cracked panting before Hank set the brand against the soft, white skin along the side of her neck and all she knew was fire and pain. It took less than ten seconds, yet lasted an eternity. The heat—a bubbling, frothing wave of agony—blossomed from the metal's cruel kiss through the length of her body until she was trembling uncontrollably. And, as quickly as it began, it ended. They'd released her and Twelve pitched forward, barely catching herself before landing face first.

She heard the vaguely distant sound of laughter and someone's voice echoed, "She's as bad as the reapers." Then Twelve retched into the snow and her world went black.


	7. Chapter 7

Seven

She heard soft weeping in the black numb of her world. It came to her slowly and echoed, as if travelling through a tunnel, far away. For some time she listened to it, like the hypnotic wash of the tide sweeping a sandy shore, she let the weeping cradle her gently and subdue her pain, her fear, and her memories. She was no one, existing nowhere, enveloped in darkness and blind to the world.

As time wore on, the nothingness of her surroundings grew cold and uncomfortable; jagged edges of it cut her face and a searing pain pulsed against the smooth curve of her neck. The sad and sweet weeping was cut short, like a candle's flame extinguished in the wind and the cold that surrounded her grew more intense. She felt memories, like nightmares, tugging at the corners of her consciousness, demanding her attention and she moaned, miserably, " _No, no, no_ …"

Then another voice broke through. "Twelve?"

The blackness subsided and her eyes fluttered open, blearily taking in the blood-crusted snow that cradled her. The voice said again, "Twelve, are you awake?"

Her memories flooded back painfully and she rocked herself into a sitting position. Her hands reached instinctively to her neck. Below her left jaw the gashes left by the Demogorgon were already caking thickly and she pulled away just a droplet of blood, though she felt the dried rivulets that ran down her neck below the wounds and her clothes were stiff with it. The brand below the right side of her jaw was excruciatingly tender and she withdrew her fingers immediately. Crouched in front of her was a familiar face. She blinked rapidly, trying to clear her vision and felt the swollen rawness of the skin around her eyes. Had she been crying?

"How are you feeling?" the redheaded guard asked. His pale blue eyes conveyed concern, but he didn't try to help her up. He seemed nervous.

Twelve tried to look over her shoulder, but her neck burned painfully at the slightest movement. Instead, she focused on the pale blue eyes of the man in front of her. "Chris?" she asked, finally placing him.

He raised his eyebrows and they vanished beneath the knitted base of his hat. "They took the reaper's body," he said, guessing what she was looking for. He cleared his throat and looked at the ground. "I was sent to bring you to the gate where you can collect your things."

Twelve pushed herself to her knees. She was utterly drained. "Holly?" she asked hoarsely.

Chris still refused to make eye contact. "She'll be evicted today," he replied.

Twelve pushed her fingers into her temples, remembering what Joyce had said. If Holly found out that Twelve had been struck out—banished from the colonies—she'd leave the safety of Twenty-Four and choose exile rather than live without Twelve. And then—Twelve clenched her jaw at the thought—Holly would be hunted relentlessly by the reapers. She balled her hands into fists and told Chris, "Send her to Joyce Byers at the orphanage. Holly was promised a position as Joyce's assistant."

Chris nodded, but still looked confused. "What if she wants to—"

"Tell her I'm dead," Twelve said finally. She swallowed thickly. "Tell everyone I'm dead." Chris looked back at her fearfully and Twelve pushed, "Promise me, Chris. Don't tell anyone I'm alive. I need you, personally, to tell Holly I died."

He paused, looking her over. Twelve realized that she must look like an animal—bruised, bleeding, with swollen eyes and knotted hair—but she didn't break under his scrutiny.

"What about your belongings?" he asked.

"Everything goes to Holly," Twelve replied. She reached out and grabbed his wrist, pulling him closer. "She has to believe I'm dead," Twelve insisted, "because I can never coming back."

Chris' eyes were wide and startled, but he nodded and, after a squeeze around his wrist, affirmed, "I promise."

They had nothing more to say and as Chris returned to his truck, Twelve dragged herself upright. She collected her machete and, after noticing the baton still abandoned, picked it up as well. As she limped toward the road, she was surprised to see Chris returning with a paper bag in his hands.

"Hold snow on the burn to ease the swelling," he said, handing over the bag. His eyes were trained on the angry red _X_ branded into her neck—the mark of an exile. As Twelve opened the bag to see rolls of gauze and a half-empty bottle of isopropyl alcohol, Chris said in a low voice, "Confidentially, there's a restaurant called Teresa's Deli ten clicks west of here on Route Five with a store of canned food that hasn't been raided." Twelve met his eyes and managed a weak smile. Chris returned the grin and continued, "I won't tell anyone about you, but… stay alive." With a quick nod, he turned and jogged back to his truck.


	8. Chapter 8

Eight

The reality of her situation didn't settle immediately, but she repeated to herself as she began her trek away from the colony that this was the beginning of the end. She was dead to everyone who mattered. She was a dead person, exiled from the colonies, banished from civilization, left to scrounge for food and shelter. To Thompson she was as good as dead. He thought he was feeding her to the reapers. To everyone else, she was already dead.

So, no holds barred, what would she do? Twelve scowled ahead of her as she marched along Route Five, cutting a swath through the unplowed snow. Now she would return to where all of this started. She would head to her actual death, no doubt, but she'd nothing left to lose. She would return to Hawkins, in the Vale. And to return to Hawkins, she needed first to visit Lucas.

* * *

Most commercial buildings had been vandalized years ago, but what was left behind could still be useful. It was in a ransacked gas station that Twelve found the road map, a lighter and some plastic utensils. The slate gray and navy blue Jansport backpack was tucked in the closet of a boy's room in a pillaged double-wide. And the cans of fruit cocktail, Campbell's soup and Spam were from the storage shed behind Teresa's Deli, just like Chris had said. She tied a couple plastic bottles to the back of her pack and filled them with snow so the sun's light gradually melted it down to drinking water as she hiked endlessly across state lines.

The bandages came in handy, soaking up the blood and sticky yellow discharge from her wounds. Like always, she healed unnaturally fast and in a couple days, the gashes and the brand were just more scars to add to the others. After the initial night, when she collapsed in the first bed she found along her route, travel became easier. Rest healed her aches and eased the bruises that spotted her body. It focused her mind and helped her to find reassurance in her decision.

On the third and fourth days, as she battled the jarring wind of an ice storm, she tried to close the door on Holly. She tried to convince herself that her sister was now part of the past and had to be separated from her like an infection. But Twelve couldn't bring herself to shut that part out of her life and her memories just yet. Instead, she took solace in knowing that Holly was alive because of Twelve's lie and there was nothing more Twelve could do for her.

On the sixth day, she crossed Indiana's border. She picked her way across main routes until her path was muddled between state roads and side streets. By the seventh day, she'd found Route Eight and knew she'd almost arrived. The last few cans in her backpack clinked together with each awkward step and the endlessly farmland offered no barrier to the winter winds. Finally, around midday, she found the short dirt road labeled County Road 61 and she limped through a foot of snow toward Lucas' home.

She'd fared well during the trip, considering how long she'd been traveling. Only three reapers appeared and she was able to avoid two of them, but the third was more complicated. Twelve winced with each step, sure that her thigh was a massive bruise from the run-in with that Demogorgon in Ohio. But she bit her tongue and kept moving. It would heal, like all of the other wounds. She was a creature of survival now and no cold or hunger or fatigue could break her. There was a destiny for Twelve, she knew there was, and she intended to fulfill it.

The storm door had long ago been removed—its hinges bolted to the frame uselessly. Twelve leaned exhaustedly against the filthy aluminum siding of the ranch and pounded her fist on the door. It echoed inside and reverberated against the walls. After a second, she knocked again, loudly. After her final strike, she thought she heard movement inside, but then the wind picked up, whistling ghostly through the rusted shell of a '79 Dodge Dart in the front yard. Behind the drape of heavy fabric hung in the window, Twelve spotted a passing shadow and then the hopeful clicking of unlatching locks behind the front door.

Lucas looked neither happy nor surprised, but before inviting her in, he said simply, "I heard you were dead."


	9. Chapter 9

Nine

"News travels fast," Twelve said, staring at her old companion. He looked good—as good as someone living out of the colonies could look. He still kept his hair pulled back; its black frayed ends stuck out of the rubber band and Twelve could just make out a few flecks of grey. He was only twenty-five, young to start greying, but the stress of his life must have contributed to the aging. The ashy scars that cut his features along the left side of his face also left a divide across his goatee, but she liked it. Lucas had grown into his old wounds ruggedly and handsomely. He had strong, attractive features that weren't dismantled by the scars, but were a part of them.

He nodded skeptically and replied, "You're kind of a celebrity. When celebrities die, people talk." He sighed and leaned back, crossing his arms and blocking her entry. "What are you doing here?"

Twelve hesitated, then pulled back her hair and extended her neck, revealing the gruesome ' _X_ ' burned into her skin. "I struck out," she said flatly, the last of her energy quickly ebbing.

Lucas made an involuntary movement toward an identical scar on his own neck and, tipping his head, stepped back to let her into the little house.

With the drapes hanging over every window and lamps lit here and there, the inside was a cozy, orange glow. It was a welcomed respite from the icy trek she'd managed that week. Wood paneling covered the walls and a heinous red shag carpet covered the living room floor. In the corner, Twelve spotted a boxy TV with rabbit-ear antennas. The previous owners hadn't been wealthy—that much was clear, but Twelve felt comfortable in the home. It reminded her of something familiar, something cherished.

Lucas breezed past a threadbare, floral couch and led her to the kitchen where an old Formica tabletop was resting on a few well-placed cinderblocks. He motioned for her to have a seat in one of the two wobbly-looking chrome chairs pulled up to the table and began pouring drinks. Twelve gulped down the water he handed her. The snow-melting system she'd managed during her hike hadn't produced quite as much water as she'd wanted and she found herself parched.

After downing three mugs of tepid water, Twelve sighed and leaned back, dropping her backpack on the orange laminate floor. She looked around and spotted an old woodstove behind Lucas, tucked in the corner of the kitchen. That explained the heat. She peeled off her jacket as the fire crackled in the iron belly of the stove. Without a word, Lucas leaned over the table and poured a clear liquid into her mug. The smell struck her immediately and she knew this time he wasn't pouring water.

She fingered the curved handle and admired the artwork along the mug—a great rocky landscape. Along the bottom of the cup, in a delicate script: _Grand Canyon National Park, AZ_. Lucas poured a second cup of the clear liquid for himself and sat across from her. Twelve let out another sigh and downed half of the mug in one gulp. The taste and heat were a familiar shock, but still she coughed into the crook of her arm for a full minute before sputtering, "This tastes like Hop's shine."

Lucas finally cracked a smile and took a sip. "Who do you think told me you were dead?" he asked, taking another mouthful and setting down his cup.

"Hopper comes here?" Twelve asked.

Lucas held up his hands in surprise. "Yeah," he said, "Hop is all over. What, did you think you're the only one he visits?" Twelve hung her head, realizing that it was stupid of her to assume the old chief didn't come out this way. After a minute, Lucas added, "And it's not Hop's shine." He took another sip before continuing. "This is distributed by Dustin."

Twelve perked up at the name. "Where is he?" she demanded.

Lucas didn't answer. He stared determinedly at the woodstove, then turned to Twelve, one eyebrow raised curiously. Pointing a single finger at her branded ' _X_ ,' he asked, "What happened, Nancy?" When she didn't immediately respond, he continued, "You had a good thing going: head Slayer, elite housing in your colony, fame, fortune… yada-yada. What did you do to get exiled?"

"Nancy's dead," Twelve snapped.

Lucas, never the one to shy from a confrontation, grabbed her right hand and extended her arm, exposing the list of names on her forearm. "Oh, you want me to add 'Nancy' to the list now, too?" he asked angrily. Twelve jerked her arm away from him and pulled on her coat again. Lucas wasn't done, though. "What did you really come here for?" he asked, throwing up his hands. "Do you need an audience for your identity crisis?" He stood up suddenly, his chair toppling behind him. "Because, call yourself what you want, you will _always_ be 'Nancy Wheeler.'"

Twelve could feel her face burning and she fumed silently, staring him down. "Everything that defined me as 'Nancy Wheeler' was taken from me," she said in a measured voice. "My home, my parents, my brother, my friends and now, the last pieces of my life left have been taken away. I'm an exile and I'll never see Holly again."

Lucas waited patiently for her to finish. He watched her take a deep gulp from her mug and finally shot back, "You think you're the only one who's lost family and friends?" Twelve flushed again, her eyes slipping out of focus as the shine's warmth spread to her fingertips.

"I lost Hawkins too, remember?" Lucas continued. "My parents are dead, too, but unlike you, I got to watch them get killed. You're not the only exile and you're not the only product of a Demogorgon attack," he finished sharply, pointing at the scars across his cheek. After a minute of heavy breathing, he added, "And here I am, still Lucas Sinclair, dealing with the shit that happened eleven years ago without hiding behind a fake identity."

Twelve planted her palms on the table to stable herself and leaned in, ready to tear into him, but instead, her chin quivered and she asked weakly, "How? How do you do it?" She dropped her head and wove her fingers into her knotted hair. "I can't believe I lost Holly," she moaned. "I don't have anything left…"

Lucas wrapped his hand around her wrist gently and she lifted her head. "You haven't lost her," he said. "You're just separated." He motioned toward the back of the house. "Stay here, okay? Until you get things figured out."

Twelve squinted, trying to bring Lucas into clearer focus, but the shine was making her head swim. She pushed through it, turning and snagging her backpack from the floor. She withdrew the broken baton and set it on the table between them. Letting the bag slip back to the floor, she explained, "This is how I struck out."

Lucas picked up the baton, balancing it on his open palms. "Authority issued," he muttered, looking it over. "This is your taser stick, right?"

Twelve nodded. "Only one week ago, out of nowhere, it stopped working right when I was taking on a mature Demogorgon."

"Stopped working?" Lucas asked, twisting the base of the handle to see for himself. His eyebrows drew together curiously when the baton didn't charge.

"Right," Twelve continued. "I paged my boss-this Authority tool named Thompson-"

"I've heard of the guy," Lucas cut in. "He's a mouth breather."

"Well, he didn't show. So I ended up having to fight the Demogorgon with the broken taser stick and my machete. And I killed it-barely. As soon as the reaper hit the ground, Thompson showed up to cite me for poaching and he struck me out." Lucas gave her an incredulous look and began inspecting the baton top to bottom. "He's always had it out for me," Twelve continued. "I had the broken taser as proof that my actions were justified, but, Thompson already made up his mind."

Lucas cranked the base of the handle one last time and scowled at the baton. "These things don't just break," he said. "They're heavy duty, military grade."

"What are you saying?" Twelve asked.

Lucas handed the baton back to her. "Did anyone have access to this besides you?"

Twelve frowned, thinking back. "No," she said slowly. "Wait. I did have to check it with the guard when I left to hunt that morning. But that's routine. Are you saying it could have been sabotaged?"

"Did you recognize the guard?" Lucas asked.

Twelve shook her head. The guard had been new to her, but she assumed that he'd just transferred from another colony. "Can you tell if it's been tampered with?" she asked him, holding out the baton.

Lucas didn't reach for it. "No, but I know someone who can."

"Dustin," Twelve said simply. Lucas nodded and Twelve asked, "Think he can fix it also?"

Lucas cocked his head. "Probably, though I don't know that he'd want to. He's probably got a stockpile of these things." His eyes narrowed. "What do you want a working taser for?"

Twelve shrugged. "I thought it might come in handy. That and any other weapons Dustin can spare." She paused and took the last sip from her mug. "I'm planning on going back to Hawkins."


	10. Chapter 10

Ten

"It's suicide, Nance," Lucas complained. They were somewhere between Fort Wayne and Indianapolis. The rusted orange snowmobile Lucas had pulled from his shed was beneath him, cooling off for the fifth time in fifty miles. He propped himself up on his knees, watching her as she stood in the middle of the road gazing into the endless waves of snowy farmland. He made an impatient noise and snapped, "Are you even listening to me?"

Twelve didn't look away, but said quietly, "Yes."

"Then you agree that this is suicide?" he asked.

Twelve shifted her weight and twisted to eye the snowmobile. Beneath its engine, the snow had almost completely melted, revealing a tar and chipped road. "Is that cool enough to get moving yet?"

Lucas glared at her. "Don't dodge the question, Nancy."

Twelve pursed her lips angrily. "Where was the original gateway?" she asked. When Lucas didn't respond, she answered: "In Hawkins Lab. And where did you see the Demogorgons dragging people when you were trapped in Hawkins eleven years ago?" She didn't wait for Lucas to refuse a response again. "Hawkins Lab," she stated.

"So what?" Lucas replied. "Knowing where it is and actually getting to it are two completely separate things." He pushed himself off of the snowmobile and faced her stoutly. "If you even survive in the Vale long enough to get to Hawkins, you're talking about breaching their lair. I mean, this is superhero-villain dynamics one-oh-one. You can't just break into the villain's hideout. It's not possible." He stopped and stared curiously at Twelve's amused grin. "What?" he asked bemusedly.

"Lucas," she chuckled. "Did you just call me a superhero?"

He rolled his eyes and began refilling the gas to prepare for departure.

As Twelve slid onto the cracked vinyl cushion behind Lucas and grabbed the metal bar that ran along the back of the seat, she said, "Don't worry about me. I've been training for this for five years."

The engine roared to life, echoing across the landscape and, just before they took off, Twelve noticed Lucas shaking his head.

* * *

As it turned out, Dustin was holed up in the rather cozy office of a massive warehouse located in an old industrial park just outside of Indianapolis. The warehouse was obscure enough—surrounded by dozens of identical structures—making it ideal for Dustin's needs. It was the _de facto_ black market and Dustin was the conductor of the entire operation. The warehouse, Twelve noticed, was also just a scant three miles from the Vale barrier.

Lucas cut the engine of the snowmobile a few blocks away and they walked the last bit. Twelve kept her eyes locked ahead, but noticed the signs of life in a few of the other warehouses they passed. Footprints wore through the snow on the sidewalk and the inch or two of melted ice in front of a few doorways indicated heat was spilling out. She wondered if they were workers or travelers or if Dustin was actually building his own colony just outside of the Vale. Biting back the urge to ask Lucas, she turned at an intersection and they found themselves face-to-face with two guards.

Lucas immediately grabbed Twelve's arm and pulled her back behind him. "It's okay, Kane," he said to one of the guards. "Just here to see Dustin."

The guard didn't relax his stance. Instead, he narrowed his eyes on Twelve. "You know the rules here, Lucas," he said gruffly. His thick black beard barely moved when he talked. A faded black turtleneck was rolled just low enough for Twelve to make out the top of his ' _X_ ' scar. She wondered if this was an exile sanctuary.

"She's with me," Lucas explained.

Kane tightened the grip on his gun. "That's not how things work here, Lucas. Who is she?"

Lucas cast an apologetic look over his shoulder before sighing exhaustedly. "This is Twelve."

If Lucas had been aiming for a response, then he nailed it. The effect his words had was instantaneous. Kane's jaw hung open and the second guard actually dropped her gun. She scooped it up and, in an attempt to regain control, challenged Lucas. "No way," she said. "Twelve's dead. She died over a week ago."

Kane nodded, turning back to Lucas. "It's all anyone's been talking about," he confirmed.

Twelve pulled back her hair, displaying the ' _X_ ' and replied, "I just struck out. The death rumor is…" She struggled to come up with an excuse that didn't involve Holly.

"...irrelevant," Lucas finished. "What's important is that we need to see Dustin."

Kane exchanged skeptical looks with the other guard. "I need proof that you are who you say you are," he insisted.

Twelve held up her hands helplessly. "How? I don't exactly have a photo I.D."

"I know he's Lucas," Kane said, tipping his head. "If you actually are Twelve, then you two are the only known survivors of Demogorgon attacks and you've both got scars to prove it."

Twelve scratched the back of her neck and let his suggestion settle. She raised one eyebrow and replied, "You expect me to take off my shift in the middle of the street to prove I have a huge scar on my back?"

Lucas wedged himself between Twelve and Kane. "How about instead of provoking a notorious Slayer you just escort us inside? Dustin will recognize her immediately and if he doesn't, then you can kill us and your operation here won't be compromised."

Kane checked with the other guard who shrugged agreeably.

Inside, the warehouse was a maze of partitions and a flurry of movement. Twelve was immediately bombarded with unintelligible noise as the door slid shut behind them. Voices shouted over the distinct rumble of engines and machinery. Here and there she caught a word or two: price checks and status updates and delivery dates. It was a fluid operation of illegal trade working beneath a cacophony of clatter.

The guards skirted them along the perimeter, breezing quickly past cubicles and aisles filled with large canvas carts. They reached the staircase and Twelve paused for a moment when she saw a teenage boy pass beneath them carrying an armful of semi-automatics. She exchanged uneasy looks with Lucas, but continued when Kane nudged her in the small of her back. On the second floor, they passed through a dented metal door into a wide corridor that ran the length of the warehouse and had been converted into a bar. A dozen or so patrons were lounging around old cable spools that had been turned on their ends to act as tables. It had a certain rustic appeal, but Twelve didn't imagine the spools were chosen for their aesthetic appeal. She assumed they'd been salvaged from the warehouse when Dustin's crew had taken over.

Down the adjacent corridor, they found an entirely different scene. In place of the bar and cable spool tables were four classic metal desks and hunched over each was someone pouring over piles of ledgers.

"Accounting department?" Twelve muttered under her breath.

Kane jabbed her in the back again.

At the end of the second corridor, Kane stepped ahead of them and knocked on the office door. The window looking in was heavily warped and Twelve couldn't make out anything more than vague shadows and subtle movement. But a moment later, a voice from inside called out, "Come in."

Kane swung the door open and stepped inside, holding his gun flat against his chest. Lucas entered and then Twelve. The office was large, but messy. The walls were lined with bookshelves and filing cabinets and a desk set in the middle was surrounded by towers of papers. Standing at the desk was Dustin: mid-twenties, still sporting jaw-length curly chestnut hair, still mildly overfed and eyes still curved in a permanent smile.

Dustin passed a cursory glance over Lucas and nodded approvingly; then his eyes fell on Twelve. There was a tense moment of silence and she could almost feel Kane's hand tighten on the trigger of his gun. Then Dustin broke into a wide smile and said, boisterously, "I _knew_ you weren't dead!"


	11. Chapter 11

Eleven

Dustin ran his fingers through his hair and leaned back into the La-Z-Boy recliner, casting a doubtful look across the room. They were in the final second-story corridor of the warehouse, which had been transformed haphazardly into Dustin's living quarters. It had certain homey qualities, like the plush furniture and a few glowing lamps. But the carpet was rolled over metal grating and the blast of noise from the first level was barely filtered. The massive windows were thin and cold air hissed through the seam of every glass plate.

Twelve carefully placed the broken baton on the table between them and sat back on the couch next to Lucas. Below her feet she heard the rapid clicking of a typewriter and an annoyed voice saying, "I can't get him more oil until the next shipment this weekend. Tell him to hold his horses…"

Further away, she heard another voice, "Two boxes of rounds for what? It'd better be good." After a pause the voice exclaimed, "Where did you get a bottle of Wild Turkey?"

Dustin, either entirely oblivious to the noise or pretending to not be distracted, rolled up his sleeves and reached for the baton. "And why exactly do you want to go back to Hawkins?" he asked. When she didn't immediately answer, he rested the baton on his knees and locked her in a harsh stare. "You know what you're suggesting, right?"

"She knows," Lucas said casually, eyeing Twelve.

"You're talking about a minimum of four days hiking through the Vale," Dustin continued, inching forward. "They're going to be _everywhere_ Nancy."

"She knows," Lucas repeated crossly.

Dustin didn't break eye contact with Twelve. "I get that the Demogorgons aren't _drawn_ to you since the infection, but they're not going to just ignore you if you go waltzing into their nest. And you're good," he gave a quick, mirthless laugh. "God knows you're good. But we're not talking about you versus one Demogorgon or two Demogorgons. I'm talking about swarms, Nancy." He threw out his arms dramatically. "Hawkins is ground zero."

" _Dude_ ," Lucas insisted, finally drawing Dustin's attention, "she knows!"

Dustin turned back to Twelve, mouth slightly ajar and eyebrows twisted confusedly. "Then why are you going back?"

Something about the stark sincerity in his tone made Twelve relax. She turned to Lucas. "Do you remember the day you found me?" She was addressing him, but speaking to them both. Lucas nodded and she continued, "It was after Hawkins had fallen and the Demogorgons were breaching our dimension left and right. People were being picked off by them, killed or dragged away…"

"Like Mike," Dustin added.

Twelve faced him and agreed, "Yeah, like Mike." She pulled off her jacket while continuing. "And my mom and dad and Jonathan and your parents," she said, glancing at Lucas. She held out her forearm for Dustin to see the list of names. "And eventually Will."

They sat in silence for a moment, sadly remembering their friends and family and the lives they once shared.

Lucas broke the silence, recalling, "I found you walking down the road." He looked out the window wistfully and the hint of a smile played at the corner of his lips. "You were holding a Beretta in one hand and a tire iron in the other. I thought you were going to try to kill me."

"I was," Twelve admitted, "until I saw it was you." Lucas nodded, unsurprised. Twelve continued, "What you need to understand is why I was prepared to kill that day. Just before you'd arrived, I held Steve and begged him not to die while his body turned cold in my hands. He'd sustained a wound protecting Holly from a Demogorgon and had succumbed to the infection in less than twenty-four hours." Twelve's index finger brushed against Steve's name at the top of her forearm. "His death came hours after my mom's death, the loss of my brother and Jonathan, and days after my dad went missing in the Vale. I was on a highway lined with deserted cars and everyone I loved was slipping through my helpless fingers." Twelve clenched her fists at the memories. She stared at her whitening knuckles and continued, "But there was one person left in my life, and my mom and Steve had already given their lives to save hers. So it was my turn to save Holly. I took that torch and it became the purpose for my survival from that point until the end. I devoted my life to my sister." Twelve lifted her head to find both Dustin and Lucas staring at her, entranced. She addressed Lucas again, "That's why I was ready to kill when you found me. I would've done anything at that moment just to save Holly. She became the symbol of my life's purpose and the one opportunity for me to ensure Mom and Steve's deaths weren't in vain. I shaped myself around that single certainty and, for the past eleven years, I propelled myself forward on that day's momentum." Twelve stopped and swallowed thickly. She dropped her head again and spoke to her balled fists. "Then, one week ago, I was setup by a disillusioned Authority officer and exiled—effectively cutting off my ability to support Holly."

"But you can't just give up," Dustin protested.

"I'm not giving up," Twelve snapped, lifting her head.

Lucas leaned forward. "How is getting yourself killed not giving up?" he asked.

"If I can't protect Holly from inside the colony," Twelve said, "then I'm going to do it from the outside." She eyed Dustin and Lucas carefully. "I'm going to the gateway and I'm going to find a way to destroy it."

Dustin let out a low whistle and raised his eyebrows.

Lucas rubbed his eyes wearily. "I reiterate; you're going to get yourself killed," he said.

"I'm not planning on looking for a fight," Twelve explained, understanding their frustration. "My intent is to gather intel, understand?" She glanced between the two and continued, "I'll be avoiding direct contact if I can, but I need to get in the lab and I need to get to the gateway."

Dustin was chewing on his thumbnail nervously. "You'll never get through," he said. "There's no way they won't have it guarded."

Twelve could hear the little shred of hope shining through his anxiety. She decided to play on that. "Dustin," she said, "I can take a few on. One at a time, I can take out more than a few Demogorgons. I've been doing it for years."

"Yeah, one at a time," Luca cut in. "With the Authority at your beck and call. What happens when you're ambushed?"

"I'm stronger than you think. And I'm faster than them," she replied curtly. She turned to Dustin, whose wide eyes took in the scene excitedly. "All I need," Twelve told him, "are weapons."

Dustin stared at her for a moment, mouth still partially open, considering her request. Without warning, he stood up and said, "I have to show you something."

* * *

They passed Kane and the other guard dutifully covering the front door and Twelve remembered to address her identity with Dustin. "I can't have people knowing I'm alive," she explained as they marched through the packed snow, turning into an alley and cutting across the center of the block. "I need Holly to think I'm dead."

Dustin led them across the street to another stretch of grey warehouses and dirty, packed-snow pathways. "Why?" he asked.

Twelve glanced out of the corner of her eye at Lucas. He knew about Holly's blood type, but it wasn't something she regularly shared and, as much as she wanted to trust Dustin, he did run a market that would leap at the chance to get their hands on some O-negative. "She's reckless," Twelve explained.

"Wonder where she gets it from," Dustin laughed.

"If she knew I was alive, she'd try to find me," Twelve continued, ignoring his comment. "And this isn't safe for her." She grabbed Dustin's arm to stop him in his tracks. "I'm serious, Dustin. She can't know."

Dustin gave her a tight-lipped smile. "Don't worry. Kane and Rebar won't tell anyone."

They continued forward, but Lucas was laughing behind them. "That guard's name is _Rebar_?" he asked, chuckling.

"Reba, actually," Dustin explained. "But she's tough as shit and one day someone called her Rebar and it just stuck." He glanced at Twelve and Lucas with a knowing smile. "Kind of like taking on a number for a nickname."

They stopped at an unmarked warehouse and Dustin pulled out a heavy ring of keys. He fit one into a padlock and swung open the aluminum door. The three of them stepped in and Dustin flicked a switch, bathing them in fluorescent light. The floor was made up of endless rows of tables and a few workbenches. In the very back, there was a foreman's office and a few massive storage units. Dustin led them to the staircase and told them to wait while he hurried to the storage units. He popped open one of the doors and withdrew a canvas bag. With the bag slung over his shoulder, he led them upstairs and through a second locked door. Inside, a single fluorescent rectangle of light shone down on a form beneath a heavy sheet lying on top of a gleaming metal table.

Twelve felt a sudden chill and a twinge in the ridge of her scar. She knew then what was beneath that sheet. Dustin moved forward and dropped the canvas bag on the floor. Before he'd withdrawn the sheet, Twelve asked him, "Where did you get it?"

The fabric settled on the floor at the feet of the table and Lucas stood next to Twelve, staring in awe at the corpse of the Demogorgon. It wasn't mature—nothing like the one Twelve had faced a week earlier. This one was barely over six feet tall and its limbs were bony and underdeveloped. "Where did you get it?" Twelve asked again. She felt slightly agitated.

Dustin licked his lips. "From my sources," he answered mysteriously.

Twelve scowled at him. "A little over a week ago, I ran into a civilian in the Badlands trying to hunt a Demogorgon. He told me someone named 'Dustin' would pay for a reaper's body."

Dustin held up his hands defensively. "I do _not_ condone civilian misconduct," he said.

"The guy was caught. He was apprehended by the Authority and I was given my second strike that day because I was talking to a citizen," Twelve continued, projecting her irritation.

Dustin dropped his hands and frowned. "Honestly, Twelve," he said. Hearing him call her by that name felt oddly deferential. "I made the offer to Slayers, only," he explained. "They understood the legal implications. _Truly_ , this was not something meant to be broadcasted to the general public."

Twelve nodded and tried to ignore the tingling in her scar every time she glanced at the young reaper's body.

"I don't care _how_ you got it," Lucas piped up. "I want to know _why_ you got it. What are you doing with a Demogorgon, Dustin?"

Dustin's eyes flashed excitedly. "Ah, yes!" he said, holding up an index finger importantly. "You guys think I'm settled up over here trading booze and guns."

"Yeah, pretty much," Lucas agreed. "Get to the good part."

"The black market is something I only vaguely oversee," Dustin continued. "In truth, it runs itself more or less. What I do during my free time is work toward the same basic goal as our super Slayer," he said, indicating Twelve.

"Which is?" Lucas asked impatiently.

Dustin shook his head. "Isn't it obvious? To end the Demogorgons, close the gate, destroy the Vale, and _et cetera_."

Lucas looked like he wanted to say something, but Twelve cut him off. "But how are you doing that?" she asked, placing her hands on the edge of the metal table, inches from the Demogorgon's torso.

Dustin stepped back and held out his arms. "When you look at me, what do you see?" he asked. When neither Lucas nor Twelve responded, he continued, "Not a warrior, that's for sure. I'm not strong." He pointed at Lucas. "And I'm not a fighter." He pointed at Twelve. "At least not in the traditional sense. But what I am is smart."

"Are you saying I'm not smart?" Lucas butted in.

"Not as smart as me," Dustin replied seamlessly. Twelve cracked a smile at the familiar banter. "So, while you guys have been out monster hunting," Dustin continued, "I've been here testing, experimenting, strategizing and inventing."

"Sounds boring," Lucas yawned, crossing his arms.

Twelve ignored him and asked, "What are you getting at?" She could tell by the mysterious smile lingering on Dustin's face that he was barely holding back his secret.

He indicated the Demogorgon between them. "Touch it," he instructed.

Twelve furrowed her brows. It looked like any other reaper she'd come across before. Maybe a little runty, but nothing special. Since it was obvious Dustin was enjoying the theatrics of the moment, she humored his request and pressed her fingers into its forearm. The skin depressed softly against her touch and Twelve yanked her hand back. It was soft, like human skin. "You removed the carapace?" she asked. Was that why its limbs seemed so thin? But as Twelve stared at the body, that didn't seem right.

Dustin stepped closer to the table so dark shadows were cast across his face from the overhead lamp. "Does it look like it's had an exoskeleton peeled off?"

Twelve studied the Demogorgon, her eyes searching for any discoloration or tear in the skin indicating a trauma that could remove its scaly carapace. But, as far as she could tell, it was undamaged. "No," she replied. "But, then, what happened to its armor?"

Dustin's smile widened. "Nothing," he replied.

"Cut to the chase, Dustin," Lucas demanded, smacking his hands at the head of the table.

"Okay, okay," Dustin said, holding up his hands. He locked eyes with Twelve and explained, "The Demogorgons don't actually have an exoskeleton. They don't have this nearly-impenetrable carapace that we've always thought." He ignored Twelve's confused gaze and kept going, "What they have is an innate ability to contract a unique layer of subcutaneous muscles that act as a flexible, adamantine shield."

"They're like Wolverine," Lucas said, his eyes glowing as he leaned over the Demogorgon's corpse.

"Better," Lucas corrected with a wink.

"Hey, nerds," Twelve said with a wan laugh. "How about in English? You're saying the reapers have a _what_ shield?"

"They have a special layer of muscles, just beneath the skin that contracts during battle, creating a rock-hard armor to protect their organs," Dustin explained. "You can think of it like a shell, except that the Demogorgons can control it and it covers them, head-to-toe."

Twelve nodded. "Okay, but how does that change anything?"

"This special muscle does more than protect against physical attacks," Dustin continued. "It protects the Demogorgons against electric attacks as well. That's why you're not able to use your Taser on any part of them except the inside of their mouths. That's a mucus membrane; it's susceptible to the electric shock." Twelve nodded again. This was standard knowledge with the Slayers. "Have you ever wondered why the Authority chose to use electric shocks to subdue the reapers?" Dustin asked her.

Twelve shrugged. "It's effective," she replied.

"It's more than effective," Dustin said. "More than gas, more than tranquilizers, more than blunt force. Electricity has always been a curious link with the Demogorgons and the Vale in general."

"The blinking lights," Lucas added.

Dustin nodded. "It turns out, the Authority knows what it's doing. Demogorgons are extremely susceptible to electric current and, as you've noticed, can be brought down with one or two quick shocks. The problem we run into is gaining access to the Demogorgon's vulnerable membrane in order to deliver that paralyzing shock." Dustin grabbed the canvas bag he'd dropped on the floor earlier and withdrew something that resembled a mace with a long, black handle and a metal cylindrical head about two inches in diameter. He pressed his thumb against a switch on the handle and, grabbing the metal ball on the top, pulled it upward to show the thin, metal cable that attached it to the handle.

Twelve narrowed her eyes as Dustin began swinging the weapon, the metal ball circling heavily from the cable. "It's a morning star," she said.

Dustin tipped his head thoughtfully. "Flail is more accurate." With a flick of his thumb, the cable reeled the metal globe back to its resting spot at the top of the handle. Dustin handed the flail to Twelve. "The cable is three feet long," he explained. "The trigger on the side there will release or retract the cable. The head is two pounds."

Twelve rolled the flail between her palms. It was heavier than her baton. "What's the benefit to using this?" she asked.

"The weapon's style relies more on momentum than bodily strength to deliver a solid blow," Dustin replied. "So the wielder doesn't necessarily have to be a trained soldier or a Slayer. Anyone can use this. Average civilians can be armed with these and stand a real chance against a Demogorgon."

"So they can hit a reaper," Twelve argued. "That's not the same as surviving an attack."

Dustin nodded at the flail. "It has a similar design to your Taser stick. You charge it by twisting the base. Don't do it now!" he said quickly as she reached for the base of the handle. "The charge is five times as powerful as your old Taser," Dustin explained. "That's enough to kill a small Demogorgon in one hit. Two hits for a mature reaper. But what's most impressive is that this weapon was designed specifically to penetrate the Demogorgon's armor with ease." He looked to Lucas, then back to Twelve. "One swing—as long as it makes contact—can take down a fully-grown Demogorgon."

"We can arm civilians with these," Lucas said, admiring the flail.

"Create an army of Slayers," Dustin added.

Twelve studied the weapon, letting their words sink in. The fluorescent bulbs above her head buzzed monotonously. Their isolating glare reflected harshly in the metal globe on top of the flail's handle. Finally, she let her hands fall to her side and said flatly, "You're planning a war."


	12. Chapter 12

Twelve

Dustin had set them up in two studio apartments in an old complex four blocks west of the warehouses. The building was surrounded by slowly crumbling department stores that looked like they'd probably been falling apart before the Demogorgons appeared. The apartment complex was a five-story walk-up with red linoleum tiles and trails of mouse droppings in the hallways. Most of the rooms were occupied, but Lucas and Twelve had a couple units toward the back of the second story. Their apartment doors were separated by an old metal radiator that clung to the beige wall and rattled loudly. They each hesitated in their unit doorways and looked at each other through the fading light.

"This is huge," Lucas said.

Twelve nodded lightly. "Yeah, it is," she agreed.

They'd left the warehouse to find evening setting in and Dustin had offered a place for them to stay the night. There was more for them to learn in the morning, he'd promised. But Twelve was still trying to decide how she felt about what she'd learned that afternoon.

"Hey," Lucas said softly, reaching out and lifting her chin. The touch felt strange. She'd spent most of her life in the colony trying to fade into the background, avoiding interaction at all costs. Aside from Holly, no one ever touched her. Lucas withdrew his hand, but Twelve kept her chin raised. As the last glow of twilight filtered through the hallway's window, she watched Lucas' dark eyes fade into the shadows of nightfall.

"You okay?" he asked.

Twelve felt an urge to say something meaningful, to thank him for his friendship maybe, or to apologize for not following him to live in the Badlands when he struck out nine years earlier and was exiled from the colony. She felt overwhelmingly indebted to him, but utterly unable to decide on a single gesture that could amount to what he deserved. Most of all, she wanted to feel his touch again—anything to remind her of the bond they'd shared before his exile.

Instead, she let her chin fall and said, "I'm fine. I'll see you in the morning." She turned her back and entered the one-room apartment.

The place was sparsely furnished. A wooden bar stool was pulled up to the kitchen counter and there was a faded plastic milk crate in the corner next to one of two windows. In the other corner was a twin mattress with a pile of folded blankets on top and a single lumpy pillow lying beside it on the floor. Twelve sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress—her knees folding up to her chin—and leaned against the window frame, staring at the snowy street below.

For the first two years, as the colonies were being established and built, she and Holly and Lucas were a family. They travelled together; they survived together and they lived together. After that day on the abandoned highway when Lucas found them, they never separated. Lucas was so like Mike that Twelve began to think of him as her brother. She protected him, like she protected Holly, and guarded them both fiercely. Then one day, at the age of thirteen, he took down a Demogorgon in front of her and she realized that he didn't need her protection. He had been infected the same as her and was a lethal force against the reapers.

Twelve stopped looking at Lucas as a brother that needed protection then, and finally realized that he was her friend. For another year and a half they developed an amazing bond, fighting together and living together. They shared everything, including the desire to become official Slayers. Lucas was her closest friend and confidante. Then, just before his fifteenth birthday, Lucas was struck out for 'gross insubordination' when he challenged an Authority officer. He was exiled to the Badlands and, out of fear for Holly's safety, Twelve did nothing. She stood at the colony's gate and watched her best friend leave.

Nothing was ever the same after Lucas left. Twelve was too protective over Holly's wellbeing to discuss her fears and concerns. She learned to live in silence and work alone. Her days hunting were solitary and her time in the colony was spent trying to blend with the crowds. She had no more friends and even her old contacts, like Joyce, saw Twelve as a symbol of death and destruction.

Outside the window, Twelve could still make out the bluish strip of snow that marked the street out front. Above, the moon shone dully through a haze of early evening clouds, creating a ghostly halo that reflected off of the snow. Twelve rubbed her fist against her forehead, angry at herself for the sudden emotional memories. This was the life she'd chosen after all. Becoming a Slayer was about death and destruction. That's what defined her. She thought about Lucas' exile—how he'd looked back at her as he walked away from the colony—and brushed away the dampness in the corner of her eye.

She was a small, young, female Slayer. If she was going to command respect and authority, she had to embody unfaltering strength and power. The most notorious Demogorgon Slayer didn't pine for compassion and a sympathetic embrace in the dark of the night. She scowled out the window and unfolded the blankets over herself, curling tightly with the pillow wedged beneath her head.

* * *

"Twelve?" a voice asked. "Twelve?"

The mattress nudged beneath her and she opened her eyes groggily. It was still dark, too dark to identify the form standing beside her bed. Instinctively, Twelve snatched the machete she'd kept next to her while she slept. Before she'd raised it past her shoulder, though, the magazine of a gun racked near the door and she spotted a second figure standing just outside the apartment.

"It's Kane," the figure next to her bed said quickly, "the guard. Dustin wants to talk to you. We're here to escort you."

Twelve lowered the machete and sighed deeply. "And of course he couldn't come himself," she muttered.

Her eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness. She realized that Rebar must have a small lamp with her. A faint light was flooding in from the open door. Twelve pushed the blankets off of herself and looked up at Kane. He was studying her bare arms, his eyes bouncing from the tattoos on her left forearm to the scars on her chest, the branded 'X' on her neck and the burns on her right shoulder. Her body was a tapestry that told the gruesome story of the past eleven years.

Finally, catching himself, Kane turned away. "I'll give you a moment to dress," he said, walking to the doorway.

Twelve plucked at her tank top and inconspicuously sniffed the fabric. Her clothes needed washed. They were musty and still stiff with blood from her fight with the old Demogorgon. She brushed her fingertips under her left jaw. The punctures it left felt like an S.O.S. in Braille. Wiping her hands down the length of her arms, she felt the rough ridges and smooth plateaus of scars, each releasing a terrifying memory of a horrendous fight. Twelve shook her head and grabbed the pile of clothes next to her, hastily pulling on the stretchy long-sleeved shirt and fitted cargo pants. She laced up her boots and shrugged into her jacket before snatching the machete from the mattress and left the apartment with Kane and Rebar.

The night air wasn't as cold as she'd expected. It actually felt almost muggy. Beneath her boots, the packed snow squished softly, melting in the warm temperatures. If the weather continued like this, most of the snow would melt, making her trek to the Vale much easier and faster.

"What time is it?" she asked as they cut through the alley next to Dustin's main warehouse. Overhead the moon hung heavily, dipping behind warehouses and chain-link fences as they made their way through the abandoned streets.

"Oh-four hundred," Rebar answered, turning abruptly and opening the warehouse door.

Twelve stepped in, following Kane along the perimeter of the work area. There were a few people hunched over desks or taking inventory of columns of banker's boxes. But for the most part, the warehouse was ghostly silent in the tired morning hours.

"You still working through yesterday's shift or did you get a break before starting today?" she asked while stifling a yawn.

They led her upstairs, their boots echoing metallically against the grated steps. Holding the second floor door open for her, Kane responded, "They're long hours, but we got a break."

They walked through the canteen and the hallway of business desks—all empty—before Rebar stepped ahead and knocked on Dustin's office door. Instead of calling them in, Dustin opened the door and motioned Twelve inside. Kane and Rebar each gave Dustin a curt nod and walked away.

After the door shut, Twelve held out her open hands. "What was that about?"

"I needed to talk to you privately," he answered, sighing heavily through his nose. He looked tired, but excited. Twelve wondered if he'd slept at all that night.

"So you sent your A-team to escort me?" she asked. "You could've just come yourself."

Dustin shrugged and sat behind his desk, gesturing to the chair across from him. Twelve took the seat and noticed that his desk was far less messy than it had been the day before. Most of the loose papers had been shuffled to one stack or another. There was just a single file folder sitting in front of him. Dustin tucked his hair behind his ears and folded his hands on top of the folder. "Listen," he began, "I know you've been through a lot. Everyone here has, but no one has quite faced the same challenges as you." Twelve narrowed her eyes, trying to decide if he was being sincere or just placating her. "We've all had to face losses. The deaths of our friends, family and loved ones. And some of us don't move on from those losses. People go mad; they kill themselves. But the ones that don't, the ones that hold on, they find a new reason for life and they cling to that reason with everything that they have left." Dustin cleared his throat and Twelve thought she saw a glimmer of wetness in his eyes. He continued, "I know that Holly was your reason for continuing after everything that happened. I knew that even before you told me and Lucas yesterday. But I didn't realize how far you were willing to go for her." He flattened his hands on the folder, concealing the label on the file's tab. "Not until you told us your plans did I realize exactly how driven you are… How determined you've become."

Twelve inched her chair closer to the desk. Behind Dustin, the 9-pane window showed the first signs of light as the sky shifted from a midnight blue to a dusky purple.

"You're truly willing to travel into the Vale and get to the gateway?" he asked.

Twelve nodded.

Dustin licked his lips and leaned into his desk. "The flail that I showed you yesterday? The studies on the Demogorgon? That was just the tip of the iceberg. For almost a decade now I've been working with a team out here to prepare ourselves for the next step."

"The next step?" Twelve repeated.

Dustin nodded. "You said it yourself last night. We're planning a war." He paused to let the words sink in, then added, "And we've started recruiting."

Twelve shook her head. "What do you mean?"

Dustin waved his hand as if it wasn't important. "We have hundreds of people on standby in the colonies, plus everyone here. But that's not the point." He locked his gaze onto Twelve. "If you're willing to sacrifice everything to destroy the gate and end the Demogorgons for Holly, then I'm asking you to do exactly that. I want your reason for continuing, your sole purpose, to be the destruction of the Vale." Dustin stood up and leaned over his desk. "I'm asking for your loyalty to our cause." With one flick of his wrist, he spun the file around and opened it, displaying a single document.

Twelve moved closer and pulled the sheet toward her. It was a double-sided contract. She skimmed the fine print, picking up bits and pieces here and there: a section about defecting; a mention about weapons handling; and a lot about leadership.

"Dustin…" she began.

"Look," he interrupted, "I know this isn't your style. You're a loner; I get it. But this isn't a one-man mission. To win this war, we need an army and to manage an army, I need a leader." Before Twelve could speak, he cut her off, "I'm not asking you to actually lead. I have a commander—someone who is not only up for the task, but also qualified. But that's not enough. To get average citizens to join our cause, we need a rallying point. We need a champion of the people. We need a familiar face." He pointed at Twelve. "We need you to come back from the dead."

Twelve sat in silence, considering his proposal.

"People idolize you," he said. "I know that's not what you want to hear, but you have to understand what kind of symbol you've become. You single-handedly defeated a full-grown Demogorgon in the middle of your colony, surrounded by the public and defeated guards. In one fell swoop you dominated both enemies of your people. You are a modern day heroine."

Twelve shook her head. "People just want entertainment," she mumbled.

"No!" Dustin exclaimed, slamming his fist on the desk. "People want hope. People want to believe that there is a chance—however slim—of winning. And they see that future in _you_. Now, as far as anyone knows, you're dead. And you need to understand that a lot of people didn't actually believe you could die."

Twelve gave him an incredulous look.

Dustin nodded and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, people get carried away. My point is, you can't underestimate the impact your return could have. We need as many recruits as possible and your involvement could mean the difference between success and failure."

They sat locked in a moment of silence and apprehension. The light from outside turned to pale blue and slowly dominated the golden glow of the office's lamps. Dustin sat back in his chair, waiting for Twelve to make the next move. Finally, she turned the contract over and looked up at him. "I'm your rallying point?" she asked.

Dustin nodded and handed her a pen. At the bottom of the page she found the signature line and below it, the name 'Twelve' was typed in crisp, black ink. She licked her lips and pressed the pen to the paper. Before signing, she lifted her head and asked curiously, "Twelve?"

"We've all changed," Dustin replied sadly. "I think the name suits who you've become." He paused, then added, "But I hope Nancy Wheeler isn't gone forever."

Twelve nodded and signed the contract. "Me too," she said.

She slid the contract across the desk. Dustin smiled and held out his hand. "Welcome to the Resistance, Twelve."


	13. Chapter 13

Thirteen

The edge of the cable spool was splintering and Twelve absentmindedly picked away little flecks of greying wood while Dustin poured them drinks from behind the bar. "I'm still not entirely sure what I agreed to," she admitted, flicking a sliver of wood from beneath her fingernail.

Dustin set down two lacquered clay tumblers on the table and sat down across from her. "You agreed to do what you were planning on doing anyhow, except now you're doing it for our cause," he said casually. "You're going to fight, but not just for Holly anymore. You're fighting for everyone." He held open his arms. "You get to use our resources: food, lodging, weapons, whatever you need. But you agree to act in the best interest of the Resistance. You agree to follow the commander's orders. You're a soldier now."

"When do I get to meet the commander?" Twelve asked, raising an eyebrow curiously.

"On the agenda for today," Dustin replied. He wrapped his hands around his tumbler and leaned in, lowering his voice, even though the canteen was empty. "We want to start your mission as soon as possible."

Twelve lifted her other eyebrow. "My 'mission'?" she asked.

Dustin nodded. "We'll chat with the commander this morning, but we want you to start for Hawkins tomorrow morning."

"I can go today," Twelve said immediately.

"No," Dustin held up his hand before she protested. "You have to prepare for the operation today. I have a few meetings scheduled for you so we can get everything in order."

Twelve clenched her jaw and leaned back.

Dustin's nostrils flared as he let out a deep sigh. "You don't like being told what to do, I know," he said. "But you understand that you're part of our organization now. We have to work as a unit or risk losing a war that hasn't even started yet."

Twelve pursed her lips and looked at her cup. It _was_ difficult being told that she couldn't leave; that was true. But if Dustin actually knew what he was doing, then maybe they stood a chance at beating the reapers and closing the gate. She looked at him and, with a small smile, gave him a quick nod.

Dustin's lips curled happily into a broad grin and he picked up his cup, holding it high. "To the future," he toasted.

Twelve bumped her tumbler against his. "To the future," she repeated and took a sip. She had expected more shine, but the drink was sweeter. It tasted like a honey liquor. She made to ask Dustin about it, but he'd already finished his and was getting up.

"I'm going to make sure everything is ready for your first meeting." He caught her apprehensive look and reassured, "This one will interest you. It's all about weapons." He checked his watch and pulled on his jacket, saying, "Kane will be up here to get you in ten to fifteen."

Twelve nodded, watching Dustin tug a baseball cap out of his back pocket and pull it on before leaving. As he disappeared through the doorway, Lucas appeared in his place.

"It's a good thing I'm not the type to worry," he said, slowly walking to the table. "Because when I woke up this morning, your apartment's door was wide open and you were nowhere to be found." He braced his hands against the edge of the cable spool and leaned forward exhaustedly. Despite what he claimed, Lucas looked relieved to have found Twelve.

"I was collected a couple hours ago by Dustin's personal guards," Twelve replied with a half-smile. "I didn't have the chance to leave a note."

Lucas nodded and sniffed Dustin's empty cup. As he headed to the bar and poured himself a fist of the liquor, Twelve continued, "Dustin's really into theatrics." She replayed the early hours in her mind again.

"That sounds like him," Lucas said as he slipped into Dustin's seat. He took a sip of the liquor and rested the tumbler back on the table. "We all got into the drama of storytelling… years ago."

Twelve remembered the boys—Mike, Lucas, Dustin and Will—collecting in their basement for days planning and executing their games. She gave a little laugh. "Yeah, you guys were real nerds for that role-playing stuff," she teased.

Lucas smiled and licked his lips, taking another sip of the liquor. "We weren't nerds," he said playfully. "And it was Dungeons and Dragons."

Twelve let her gaze fall to the worn wood of the table's surface as she remembered the boys in old Hawkins. So much had changed. Even Lucas' voice was different. It had dropped a few octaves with age and spending his days stuffing wood into a smoky stove. She lifted her gaze and tried to reconcile the man in front of her—long hair flecked with grey, scarred skin, cautious eyes—with the boy he'd been. And, not for the first time, she wondered what Mike would have looked like if he'd made it out of Indiana eleven years ago. She shook herself out of the reverie, reminding herself that she was living in the present and the doors to her past were closed. She refocused her eyes and met Lucas'. They stared at each other in a melancholy silence—both of their smiles long vanished.

"What did Dustin want?" he asked.

"He wanted a private meeting, apparently," Twelve replied with an eye roll.

Lucas watched her closely. "How very cloak-and-dagger," he said.

In the ensuing silence, Twelve realized he was waiting for her to elaborate. She took her time swirling the last bit of liquor in her cup before sipping it down and wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her jacket. The sharp tang of blood on her cuff reminded her that she needed to clean her clothes. Finally, hoping she wasn't breaking any contract rules, she explained, "Dustin has an army, Lucas." She waited for his surprised response. When it didn't come, she continued, "They're called the Resistance and they're planning an attack… soon." She delayed the last bit a few seconds by playing with her empty cup, but finally admitted, "I signed a contract, Lucas. Dustin recruited me into the Resistance."

Lucas still didn't look surprised. "Do you know what that entails?" he asked.

Twelve narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "Why are you asking me that?" She studied him for a second then asked, "Are you in the Resistance?"

Lucas paused, took another sip of the liquor and nodded. "A couple years ago I joined."

Twelve chewed her lip. "Why didn't you tell me?" she demanded.

Lucas shrugged, but refused to make eye contact. "You weren't around. And you had Holly. There was no reason to tell you."

Twelve abruptly stood up, knocking her chair back. She felt like everyone was hiding something behind her back, but to her face they treated her like their secret weapon. "My mission begins tomorrow," she stated. "I'm going to Hawkins."

She breezed past Lucas, but before she reached the door, he called out, "Nancy!"

"It's 'Twelve,'" she replied shortly.

For once, Lucas didn't argue. Twelve nearly faltered when she saw the defeated look on his face, but she clenched her fists and stared back at him. Lucas shook his head ruefully. "Be careful," he said. "Please."

Twelve turned and took the stairs two at a time, nearly running into Kane at the bottom.

"I'm taking you to weapons," he said, jerking his head toward the front door.

* * *

They'd returned to the warehouse Dustin had taken them to the night before—the one with the Demogorgon. But this time, there were people waiting for her. After the metal door slid shut, Dustin came forward and motioned her inward, past the staircase, past tables lined with batons, flails, guns, swords, gas canisters, flame throwers, and every other weapon she could imagine. He led her to the very back where three people were hunched over a final table.

"Introductions," Dustin said, standing at the head of the table. He extended his hand toward Twelve. "You all know who this is. And, as of this morning, she has agreed to join the Resistance." The two older men and young woman across the table nodded and smiled happily. They all looked vaguely familiar to Twelve, but she couldn't place them initially.

A man in his early fifties with a thick mustache and heavily receding hairline stood up and held out his hand. Twelve shook it as he introduced himself. "Scott Clarke," he said.

Twelve froze. "You were a teacher in Hawkins," she said. He nodded, his mustache curving behind a pleasant smile. "Wait," she said, shutting her eyes and scrunching her forehead. "You were there. You were at River Valley when the Demogorgons attacked eleven years ago."

The smile disappeared behind his mustache and his eyes darkened behind furled eyebrows. "Yes," he agreed. "I was in the cabin next to yours." He glanced at Dustin, then returned to look at Twelve. "I wasn't sure if you'd remember me, but it is such an honor to meet you… again."

"Mr. Clarke is our weapons and technology developer," Dustin said.

The young girl stepped forward. She had light eyes and blonde hair that was pulled into a tight French braid. Her shirt was fitted, so Twelve could see the outline of her muscular figure and the high collar almost covered the ' _X_ ' branded beneath her jaw. The girl shook Twelve's hand and said, "It's nice to meet you, Twelve. I'm Jennifer Hayes."

"Lieutenant Hayes is second in command," Dustin explained. He seemed eager to maintain a level of authority and order, but Twelve noticed the relaxed atmosphere.

"I recognize you," she said. She tried to recall if she'd seen Hayes in the colonies, but couldn't bring her to mind.

Jennifer looked uncomfortable for a moment, then admitted, "I went to school with Dustin… and your brother. We were friends."

Twelve stared at her and slowly began remembering little moments from her previous life. Yes, maybe she had seen Jennifer before. She was Mike's age—or the age Mike would have been if he'd made it out of the Vale. Wanting to avoid an awkward moment, she nodded politely and turned to the final person at the table. He was older, in his early sixties Twelve guessed, but was fit and lean. He had shaggy dark hair shot through with streaks of grey and expressive eyes. Something about him made Twelve uneasy, but she extended her hand anyway.

He shook it without saying a word, so Dustin butted in. "Twelve, this is Lonnie Byers."

She immediately withdrew her hand and gave Dustin an incredulous look. He tipped his head and peeked up at her under the ragged brim of his hat. Lonnie sat down in a wooden stool, looking sheepishly away from the group. "Are you kidding?" Twelve asked Dustin under her breath.

Dustin took off his hat and planted his hands firmly on the table, staring at her. "Eleven years," he said. "Lonnie's been helping me for eleven years. Ever since my parents got me to Indianapolis, he's been here." Dustin glanced at the rest of his team, then returned to Twelve. "He's been instrumental in creating the Resistance."

"Look," Lonnie cut in, "I know I'm not perfect. And I know you were friends with my boy—"

"Don't," Twelve interrupted. Her right hand reflexively cupped the tattoo on her left wrist.

Lonnie tipped his head and chewed his lip thoughtfully. "I wasn't a good father, okay?" He pressed his fist on the table and looked up at Twelve. "But I'm a good rebel."

"Hear, hear," Dustin added.

"It's true," Lieutenant Hayes said.

Twelve took a deep breath, pushing away the memories of Jonathan complaining about his dad. She nodded and turned to Dustin. "Fine," she said. "Let's get started."

The weapons displayed on the tables were just a sample of what they had. Lining the walls of the warehouse were wooden boxes filled with enough weapons to arm two and a half thousand soldiers. They had prepared weapons according to waves of attacks—electrified flails for the first wave, guns for the second, batons for the third, blades for the fourth and other specialized weapons for the fifth. The plan of attack was a continuous loop of _shock, immobilize, destroy_ , until they reached the gateway.

"The working theory at this time," Scott explained, hovering over a table filled with softball-sized metal globes, "is that everything associated with the Vale has a vulnerability to electricity. Or so we're hoping." He picked up one of the globes and held it on the tips of his fingers as he continued. "We don't know how much energy was needed to open the gate and therefore can't accurately assume how much energy is needed to close the gate."

Dustin approached the table and looked over the globes. "So we're not taking any chances," he said.

"And these are?" Twelve asked, peering at the globe Scott held in front of her.

"These," Scott said, delicately returning the globe to the table, "are EMP devices." He looked at her and clarified, "Electromagnetic pulse. Each one can deliver a massive electric disruption—"

"Think lightning bolt," Dustin cut in, his eyes glowing excitedly.

"Sort of," Scott agreed, pointing at Dustin, but keeping his eyes locked on Twelve. "These will release a wave of electromagnetic energy. Individually, they wouldn't stand a chance of closing the gate, but," he spread his arms to indicate the full table, "a dozen set off at once could shut down an entire city."

Twelve gave Scott a blank look. "And that's good?"

"These particular pieces aren't meant for wide-scale destruction. The pulse will be shallow, so they need to be set off very close to the gate and they need to be set off simultaneously," he explained.

Twelve ran her finger along the outside of one of the globes. Thin seams and indents crisscrossed along the metal. "How do you have the technology to make these?" she asked.

"Well, in truth, we don't," Scott admitted.

"What he means is that we didn't start from scratch," Dustin said. "We've scavenged most of our weaponry from military bases and bunkers over the years and have made updates and changes to suit our needs. These EMPs are the most important bit of weaponry we've been able to grab without the Authority noticing. There's a military weapons facility in Ohio that developed a lot of this sort of stuff during the Cold War."

"Mound Laboratories," Scott jumped in. "They worked with nuclear weapons development and research." He spread his fingers above the globes, admiring the weapons. "The facility specialized in nuclear EMP development." He looked at a thoroughly bewildered Twelve and nodded his head. "It's pretty intense stuff."

Twelve narrowed her eyes, looking from Scott to Dustin. A few tables away, Lieutenant Hayes and Lonnie were silently watching the exchange. Twelve couldn't read their expressions, but she had a hunch the EMPs were a product of Scott and Dustin, exclusively. "These sound dangerous," she said.

Scott dropped his hands, looking thoroughly disappointed. He'd obviously hoped for a more ecstatic response. Dustin tugged his hat back on and looked at his hands. "Well, in theory, yes, these are extremely dangerous," Scott said sullenly. "But that's why we're taking precautions." From a drawer beneath the table, he withdrew a heavy metal box with a gauge on the front. "Do you know what this is?" he asked.

Twelve shrugged and looked nonplussed. "Mike was the one who understood this stuff." She lifted her eyebrows apologetically. "I'll do what you need me to do, but I'm not like my brother. Chemistry was my science of choice, not physics or… whatever category this falls under."

Scott laughed softly and handed her the box. It was heavier than she'd expected. "This is a megohmmeter," he explained. He tapped his index finger against the gauge. "And this dial is going to tell us how many EMPs we need to deploy at the gate to close it."

Twelve studied the gauge, but couldn't make heads or tails of it. At the moment, the needle was resting to the far left, below the zero.

"It'll measure the electrical resistance of the gate," Dustin said, leaning over her shoulder. "All you need to do is get to the gate, take a quick reading with the megohmmeter and bring back the results." He ran his finger along the dial. "We'll calculate the number of EMPs needed to close the gate based on your reading."

Scott, who was also leaning over the table, added, "And if your group comes back with a maximum reading, we're going to send you in with all of the EMPs." When Twelve gave him a shocked look, he said, "But don't worry; we'll tell you what to do, so you won't be in danger."

Twelve placed the megohmmeter on the table and turned to Dustin. "My ' _group_?' I thought I was going in alone."

Scott looked abashed and Dustin chewed his lip nervously.

"We can discuss this upstairs," he said shortly. Scott turned and walked away from the table, avoiding eye contact. "Your next meeting is upstairs anyway," Dustin added motioning toward the staircase.

Twelve turned and marched forward, looking ahead and grinding her teeth. Once again she felt the frustration of being left in the dark. If she was so important to the Resistance, why were they hiding all of their plans from her?

By the time they'd reached the second level, Scott had joined Lonnie and Lieutenant Hayes, pouring over a map of Indiana in the corner of the lower level. Dustin stepped ahead of Twelve and, with an abashed look, swung open the door. Yesterday the room had a single table in the middle of the floor with a Demogorgon's corpse sprawled across it. Today there was a single desk and the fluorescent lamp overhead lit up Jim Hopper's tired expression. He stood up and removed his hat when they came in. Twelve stood by the door, taking in the scene. Hopper looked like he hadn't shaved in a week and his hair stayed in the swept position after he ran his fingers through it nervously. He was wearing a dark outfit: black pants with black boots and a grey, long-sleeved, button-up shirt. None of it looked particularly new or impressive, but the fact that he seemed to be in uniform once again set Twelve off guard.

"Hop," she said, not sure if she should be surprised by his presence or not. She hesitated then added, "Thank you for the drawing pads for Holly." Her words sounded hollow—a world away. What was Colony Twenty-Four now? Holly was miles away with her charcoal and drawing pads. Hopper, on the other hand, was standing in front of her, in the middle of the Resistance. "What are you…?" she began, but trailed off.

Dustin stepped between them. "I would like to introduce the Commander of the Resistance," he said.


	14. Chapter 14

Fourteen

Twelve sat on the edge of the mattress again, staring solemnly out the window. Each breath fogged the glass for a moment before fading away and in between breaths, Twelve watched the movement in the streets below slow as the hour grew late. Beside her was a soft canvas bag holding the megohmmeter. Beside it was a simple compass and her machete. Dustin had told her to get some rest—that they'd reconvene at six the next morning to go over any last details before she headed into the Vale with her group.

She frowned at the night sky. Her group consisted of Twelve, Lieutenant Hayes, Kane and Lucas. Everyone had been inside the Vale at least once, Dustin had assured her. They were trained and capable. They knew the risk.

Twelve shut her eyes and exhaled slowly. Behind her, the door opened with a reluctant creak and a lamp switched on. Suddenly the starry night sky disappeared and Twelve was staring at her own reflection. In the dusty glass she saw Lucas standing in the doorway.

"Just let yourself in," she said, not turning around.

Lucas sighed and closed the door. "Yeah, well, I figured if I knocked you wouldn't let me in anyway, so I took the initiative," he replied exhaustedly.

The mattress rocked lightly as he took a seat on the other end. Twelve finally turned away from her reflection and faced him. "You knew the whole time?" she asked.

"We've had an infiltration plan in the works for months," he admitted. "But it just never came together. When you showed up, Dustin saw his opportunity."

Twelve nodded silently. She didn't feel as angry as she'd expected. She'd suspected the plan was always there; this just confirmed her suspicions. "How good are you?" she asked. "In a fight, I mean. I haven't seen you up against a Demogorgon in almost ten years."

Lucas hesitated. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. "Not as good as you," he admitted. When Twelve twisted to look at him, he continued, "I don't know what it is about you, Nancy, but no one is at your level."

She turned back to the window. With her eyes unfocused, the sky was more visible than her own reflection and the subtle shifting of wispy clouds calmed her mind. "It's from the infection," she said. "You know that."

"I'm infected the same as you," Lucas replied softly.

"Do you ever…" Twelve screwed up her eyebrows trying to find the words. "Do you ever go into a trance when you're fighting?" she asked.

"A trance?" Lucas repeated.

"Right," Twelve said, turning to him. "Like a meditative state." When he shook his head, she continued, "I don't know what it is, but when I fight, I slip into this strange, calm state of mind and everything around me transforms into this fine clarity." Lucas looked confused and Twelve explained, "I'm faster and stronger. I'm more in-tuned with the Demogorgon's movement. I can anticipate where they're going to appear. I can _feel_ their emotions, Lucas."

He was shaking his head. "I've never experienced that," he said. Reaching across the mattress, he rested his fingers along the edge of her tank top, touching the exposed tip of her scar. "But I've never tried either," he admitted. "To be honest, I've avoided any encounters with Demogorgons. I've faced a small fraction compared the number you've taken down. It's possible that the infection has affected each of us separately, according to our survival needs." When Twelve gave him a curious look, he added, "Your survival has largely hinged on your ability to be an efficient and deadly fighter. Mine has relied on extended periods of time without rest or food and being exposed to extreme elements—all of which I've managed where anyone else would have died." His fingers slipped down her back and pulled away. "Besides," he said, "it sounds like the trance is good for you if it helps you fight."

Twelve intertwined her fingers behind her neck, massaging the back of her head. "It's more complicated than that," she said. "It's hard to control the trance. Sure, I'm better at fighting when I'm in that state, but in the middle of a battle sometimes it just breaks." She swallowed and shut her eyes, trying to relax as she rubbed the back of her neck. There was no reason for her to be discussing this with Lucas except that she finally had someone to talk to and it felt good. "I just need to train more," she said. Then, dropping her hands to her side, she stood up and turned to face Lucas. "Why are you here?" she asked.

From inside his jacket, Lucas pulled out a second machete, similar to Twelve's, but newer and nicer. He handed it to her, saying, "After you fought that last Demogorgon with two weapons, Dustin and I thought you might like to go forward with a second machete."

Twelve accepted the blade and looked it over in the dim, orange light. It was a solid weapon, as heavy as her other machete and comfortable in her hand. She nodded to him. "Thanks, but why didn't you just wait until the morning to give it to me?"

Lucas tipped his head and stared at her. The right side of his face was bathed in the cool glow from the moon's light and the left side was a fiery orange from the lamp. "You know why," he said sadly.

Twelve placed the machetes side-by-side on the mattress. "Is that why you told me to be careful earlier today, even when you knew that we were supposed to go to Hawkins together?"

Lucas nodded.

"What about Dustin and the others?" she asked.

"I didn't say anything to them," he replied, standing up and facing her. They stood toe-to-toe only a few inches away from each other. Lucas was a foot taller than her, so Twelve had to lift her chin to look into his face. "When are you leaving?" he asked.

"Midnight," Twelve replied quietly.

Lucas glanced at his watch and pressed his lips together. "I guess you'd better get ready then," he said.

"How did you know?" Twelve asked suddenly.

Lucas smiled back at her. "You've always put yourself in the greatest danger to save those around you," he said in a hushed voice. Then, after a second, he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into him, pressing his cheek against the top of her head. Twelve slid her hands behind his back and held him close, listening to the subtle thump of his heartbeat. She still smelled wood smoke on his clothes, but other scents lingered with it, including the simple musky scent of Lucas himself. "I'm serious, Nancy," he said. "Be careful." As he pulled away from her, he bent down and kissed her forehead lightly, then turned for the door.

"Thank you, Lucas," Twelve said when he'd stepped into the hallway.

"For what?" he asked, hand still resting on the doorknob.

Twelve gave him a faint smile. "For being," she said simply.


	15. Chapter 15

Fifteen

Twelve hitched the canvas bag higher across her shoulder, looping her thumb beneath the broad strap that crossed her chest. As she quietly passed the last warehouses of the district, she saw her reflection in the warped glass of the abandoned buildings. The two machetes were hung at her waist, the blades lying against the outside of her thighs. Out of habit, she kept an additional knife strapped to her back, hidden beneath the softened leather of her jacket. The megohmmeter hung heavily in the canvas bag across her back, pressing into the handle of the hidden knife.

Pausing for a moment, Twelve turned to survey the road behind her. She counted to thirty, watching for any movement, but saw nothing. No one had seen her leave and she had a six-hour head start to get into the Vale before Dustin or the others realized she was missing. Tightening the elastic that held her braid against her neck, Twelve moved forward. She stepped carefully, travelling as silently as possible until the Resistance's headquarters was far behind her.

It was nearing one in the morning when the barrier appeared—an oscillating sheet of blackish-purple that stretched from the ground and vanished into the sky. The veil was nearly transparent and shimmered in the moonlight, belying the sinister world of shadows it contained. It looked ethereal, reminding Twelve of images she'd seen a lifetime ago of the northern lights, glimmering and shifting in ghostly waves.

The Vale's expansion had been halted by the Authority in '85 when their researchers accidentally electrified a portion of the barrier and stopped its outward spread. Leaping on the discovery, they set up massive generators to create over two thousand electrified blockades across the northern reach of the barrier, effectively containing the Vale to the southern half of North America.

Twelve approached the barrier, its immaterial ripple sinking into melting mounds of snow and frosted spikes of field grass. On the other side, she could see the world continuing: the field stretching on in front of her, the back of a brick building, the dangling traffic lights at an intersection and the bare trees lining the street. But all of it was a hollow reality—dark, cold and distant. She lowered her eyebrows, ducked her head and stepped through the barrier. Lifting her head, she took in her surroundings. The light was still a dim glow from the moon, but it cast a faintly violet hue across everything. Everywhere she looked tiny wisps of dust or ash clung to the air and below her feet, the earth was crisscrossed with organic tendrils, slick and gleaming in the purple light. Twelve took a steadying breath. It had been a long time since she'd last entered the Vale and it hadn't changed at all. Without a second look back, she moved forward, directing herself toward the intersection ahead where she knew she'd find the main highway that would lead her to Hawkins.

For six hours she walked down the middle of I-65 without stopping. The lower left pocket of her cargo pants held a road map of Indiana—one that she'd picked up on her way to Lucas. It got her to the highway, but she knew how to get home now.

 _No_ , she thought to herself, _not home_.

Hawkins hadn't been her home for a long time. She reminded herself that as she hoisted herself over a knotted clump of glistening tendrils that had wrapped around the highway bridge. To her right she spotted an exit sign for Franklin. Wet roots had wound up the sign's posts and were curling along the edge. Like everything else, it was being swallowed by the Vale. Twelve checked her watch. She was making good time.

On the other side of the massive clump of intertwining tendrils, she found a small alcove formed in the sunken pavement of the road. She sat down heavily and leaned against the organic mass that roped itself across the highway. Out of her bag she withdrew a bottle of water and from her coat pocket she pulled a small boule. The crust fractured beneath her thumb as she tore a chunk of bread off and popped it in her mouth. It was dry, but dense and a few bites filled her up quickly. The water wouldn't last long, though. She'd only brought two bottles and she doubted that there would be any potable water in the Vale. Twelve screwed the cap back on her bottle of water and shut her eyes, tipping her head back into the soft embrace of the black root behind her.

"Tonight, you're coming back from the dead," Dustin had told her the night before. "Our operatives in the colonies will spread the word that you're alive and have joined our cause. Tomorrow morning, our allies will defect to the Resistance. When the colonies' gates open to let out the laborers, our soldiers and allies will be leaving as well. They'll all gather here for our attack on the Vale. By the time your group returns from the mission, an army will be waiting for you."

Twelve opened her eyes and stood up, picking bits of organic slime from her pants. She wondered what Dustin thought of her now—his rallying point, abandoning her team on their first mission. She rested her hands on the handles of her twin machetes, pointed herself south and began walking again. Her intent was to manage the trip in less than four days. She'd gone without sleep before; exhaustion didn't affect her much. But she wouldn't have managed if she was with a group of three other people—two of whom couldn't manage what she and Lucas could. And her reason for leaving Lucas behind? She furrowed her brow uneasily. What had Lucas said to her? _You've always put yourself in the greatest danger to save those around you_. Ultimately, the Vale was a dangerous place and Twelve couldn't bring herself to lead anyone beyond the barrier.

She walked along the highway, utterly alone in the unnatural silence and stillness of the Vale. Flakes of ash that clung to the air vanished as she cut through, into an incorporeal mist that shimmered a trail behind her. The moon had long ago vanished and the sun had broken the horizon, shining through the Vale's barrier like a fractured reflection through rippling water. All around her the world was black and grey and violet. It was almost unrecognizable, but also disturbingly familiar.

* * *

The first bottle of water she'd finished miles before, but she was saving the second bottle, despite the stickiness in her mouth. Half of the boule was still in her pocket. It was too dry to eat without opening the second bottle of water. But she still had to make the trip back, she reminded herself. She'd been on the road for thirty hours. Her feet were a little tender, and her head was starting to ache, but the exit for Hawkins had just appeared on her horizon. Sucking on her bottom lip—split from dehydration—she finally veered off of the highway.

Twelve took a right onto the state route and pulled out her compass. As Dustin had predicted, the needle was beginning to deviate from the earth's magnetic pull and was tugging toward the lab instead. She stuffed the compass back into her pocket and marched forward. The Vale was as still and silent as ever and Twelve's scar was as calm as before she'd crossed the barrier. The rest of her, though, was anxious. She'd been in the Vale—the home of the Demogorgons—for over a day and had still not come across a single reaper. Now, less than three hours from the gateway, she felt a heavy dread growing.

Shaking her head and ignoring the unease, she tried to remember the few tips Hopper had mentioned a couple nights earlier. He was the only one in the Resistance who had been inside the lab and had seen the gateway. "The east wing," she reminded herself. Her voice was rough and quiet in the gloom of the Vale. "Find the stairs," she said. Hopper had told her the elevator probably wouldn't work anymore. "Follow the compass," she whispered, repeating Dustin's words of advice.

She took a right onto Route 50—less than an hour to Hawkins—when her scar gave a sudden surge of electric tingling. Twelve stopped in her tracks and waited. The current didn't let up; it strummed the length of her scar and spread across her body. She closed her eyes, reaching out to sense the presence of a Demogorgon and identified one immediately. It moved in silence, like the rest of the Vale. The glossy form of an immature reaper watched her from the other side of the road. Twelve slowly unsheathed her machetes, keeping her eyes trained on the Demogorgon. She stood in the middle of the road, blades drawn, waiting for it to make a move, but it just stayed in its spot, jaws clamped shut. Twelve waited for the thrill of the Demogorgon's excitement or aggression or even fear to cut through the tingling of her scar, but all she could sense was a deliberate calm and—Twelve narrowed her eyes suspiciously—she felt curiosity radiating from the reaper. For almost a full minute they faced each other, motionless in the ghostly violet light of morning.

Finally the Demogorgon lowered its head and turned away, walking down the shoulder of the road. After a few yards, it stopped and twisted to face Twelve again before continuing forward. Clenching her jaw and tightening the grips on her machetes, Twelve watched the Demogorgon repeat its strange behavior—walking a few yards, turning and then continuing forward. When it had reached about fifteen yards, the Demogorgon stopped and turned completely to face Twelve. It shifted its feet almost impatiently, but otherwise held still.

Twelve straightened her back, relaxing her arms slightly. She'd never faced a nonaggressive reaper, but there wasn't any hostility in its presence. It was, as far as Twelve could tell, leading her somewhere. She hesitated. The Demogorgon was going in the same direction as she was—toward Hawkins. To not follow it meant that Twelve would have to backtrack and select a new route. She glanced at her watch. There wasn't enough time for her to find another path. Taking a steadying breath, Twelve lowered her machetes, still holding them tightly, and began forward. The Demogorgon waited until she'd closed the gap between them before turning and lumbering along the side of the road, leading her ahead.

They'd been walking for less than a mile when her scar twinged again. To her right, a second adolescent Demogorgon materialized from the blackened forest that lined the road. Twelve stopped and lifted her machetes. She held her body straight forward to keep both Demogorgons in her line of sight. Her breathing came in quick bursts as she willed herself to find a state of calm. She'd fought more than one reaper before. It wasn't easy, but these were young. They were weaker and slower. As the trance descended, her breathing slowed; her muscles relaxed. She waited in the settling calm for the Demogorgons to attack.

Beneath her boots, the crisscrossing tendrils provided a soft surface to sink her heels and gain a solid foothold. The shimmering light of the late morning sun cut eerily through the Vale, glinting off the thousands of floating flecks of dust and reflecting off of the glistening skin of the Demogorgons. In the pale violet glow, the reapers faced each other, calling softly across the road animalistic chirping and gurgling noises. After a second glance back to Twelve, both Demogorgons continued forward.

Twelve's eyes fluttered as she pulled herself from the meditative state. Her arms dropped again, the machetes' blades smacking her thighs. She tipped her head curiously as the two creatures lumbered ahead. Still she felt no active aggression in them. With a resigned sigh, she continued forward, following them at a comfortable distance.

The road led them further southwest, toward Route 135, which would take them into Hawkins. They passed under streetlamps and traffic lights. They passed gas stations being choked by the wet, black roots that clung to everything. They passed farms and houses in varying stages of decay. Twelve, still travelling along the center of the road, wound past rusted cars and trucks, their tires deflated and sunk into the organic softness of the Vale.

Another mile in, two more Demogorgons appeared, plodding ahead determinedly. Twelve slowed her pace, allowing the group to move further ahead. Her scar was an irritating series of chills and shocks. She began recognizing landmarks—a store, a schoolyard, an old playground. They were getting closer to Hawkins. But as they marched forward, more Demogorgons appeared. They emerged from the trees, unfolded from shadowy recesses in the ground, rose from the horizon. Each new appearance struck her already prickling scar like an individual popping spasm. It felt like the pressure and sudden release of cracking her knuckles, but deep in the muscle of her back. Over and over, the crackling ticked away beneath the unceasing hum and tingling flow. Twelve lost count of the spasms, but as she realized that the small cluster of Demogorgons had quickly become an army, surrounding her entirely as they continued forward, the first beads of sweat began to run down her neck.

She tried to maintain her focus, to keep calm, but as she reached out to sense the emotions of the reapers that surrounded her, the sheer number of beings that impacted her mind was terrifying—fifty… more even. Most were calm and driven. Some very young Demogorgons were quelling their excitement. But they moved as a unit. They were collectively working together and, Twelve understood, they were nearing their target.

She hadn't sheathed her machetes and she wouldn't. Her jaw hurt from clenching her teeth nervously and her heart was still hammering, making her unpleasantly dizzy. Every few feet, she glanced quickly over her shoulder at the line of Demogorgons behind her, blocking her from turning around. The forest on either side of the road had receded and now stretches of field took over, interrupted only occasionally by a grain silo.

They were still two townships outside of Hawkins when the group veered east off of Route 135. The Demogorgons had created a barricade, forcing Twelve to move with them as they turned. She climbed a rocky embankment and entered the field with the lumbering mass of reapers. They didn't stop or slow, but kept moving through the violet glow of the valley. All around Twelve she heard the nickering and rumbling noises of the Demogorgons as they called to each other. And as they continued to move, her gaze fell to the wall of muscular backs and glossy black skin in front of her. Her machetes fell an inch as she realized with a profound certainty that she was never leaving the Vale. Where the Demogorgons were leading her, she didn't know, but she had no hope of escaping and that truth struck her with a defeating heaviness. Hanging her head and frowning, she finally slid her machetes into the soft leather loops along her belt.

They crossed the field and entered the woods—a place of dark shadows and black silhouettes. As they moved into the forest, Twelve noticed the group shifting. Like an unseen signal had alerted them, the Demogorgons at the head of their column were peeling away and standing to the side as she passed. She sensed that they had reached their destination, but couldn't see beyond the sea of Demogorgons that still shielded her view. More and more the group thinned and fanned out until the last line of reapers blocking her path spread aside, revealing what they had come for—or, more accurately, _who_ they had come for: a single human stood in the lavender glow beneath a massive, charcoal black tree.


	16. Chapter 16

Sixteen

It was a young woman with shoulder-length brown hair in finely coiled dreadlocks. Her skin was a pale olive and flawless in the gloom of the Vale. She was wearing loose cotton pants and a heavy, fitted tunic that clung to her hips. On either side of Twelve, the Demogorgons chirped and crouched, like bizarre featherless birds.

Unsure of her predicament, Twelve withdrew her machetes again. She glanced over her shoulder. The Demogorgons weren't blocking her escape anymore. But she suspected they wouldn't allow her to just leave. "Who are you?" she asked the girl.

The woman's dark brown eyes rolled to her left and right, taking in the chirruping columns of Demogorgons. She took a step forward, her bare feet gliding across the damp surface of the forest floor.

Twelve stepped back, still holding her machetes firmly. "What's going on here?" she demanded. "What is this?"

The Demogorgons followed the girl's movement as she approached Twelve, their heads bobbing and craning to watch. Ten feet in front of Twelve, the girl stopped and stared, eerily calm and expressionless. "What are you doing here?" she asked finally, her voice as steady and composed as her presence.

There was something disquietingly familiar about her, but the girl's inexplicably peaceful disposition and refusal to answer Twelve's questions infuriated her. Tightening her grip on the machetes, she replied sharply, "Answer my questions first." The girl stayed resolutely silent, staring unblinkingly at Twelve. Taking a half-step forward, Twelve demanded, "Who are you?" After another lapse of stubborn silence, she asked, "Are you even human?" She hated the note of panic in her tone.

Suddenly, a voice to her right said calmly, "She's human."

Twelve snapped to the direction of the voice and saw another person walking out of the shadows behind the nameless woman. He was a man, about the same age as Twelve, with light brown hair that hung in his eyes and a slight build. In the shadowy light, the hint of facial hair was just visible, like he hadn't shaved in a week or two, and his pale skin glowed in the ethereal shimmer of the Vale. As he approached them, Twelve narrowed her eyes. He wore khaki pants that were tucked into his boots and his high-collared jacket looked vaguely military. There was something about him—the way he walked, his voice, the way he hung his head—as if he was trying to hide something. And when he stopped a few feet behind the girl and lifted his eyes, Twelve knew what it was.

Her arms dropped and the blood drained from her face as she looked into the dark eyes of a ghost. "Jonathan," she whispered.

With a soft nod, he said quietly, "Hi, Nancy."

She meant to step forward, but her world was spinning and she stumbled, landing heavily on her knee in front of the nameless girl. Regaining herself, she gaped at him. "You're alive," she said. Painful memories rushed back to her: the day she was attacked by a Demogorgon and Jonathan saved her life; the afternoon Jonathan secreted her away and kissed her in his dad's old cabin; their race to escape a Demogorgon in the woods and Jonathan's self-sacrifice to save her life; the words he whispered when he risked everything for her: _I'll find you_.

Something soured inside of her at the memory of those words: _I'll find you_.

"You've been alive this whole time?" she asked, taking another step forward. She felt her face flush as the waves of shock and disbelief were replaced with hot anger.

Jonathan held his head forward, looking up at her with those dark eyes she never thought she'd see again. "You don't understand, Nancy—"

"No," she interrupted, firmly, taking another step closer. "You don't get to call me that. I go by another name now," she said angrily, wanting to rip away every memory of her he still clung to.

Jonathan tipped his head passively and swept his hair aside. "Yeah," he agreed, "I know."

"You _know_?" Twelve asked incredulously, moving closer. As her fury boiled, she became vaguely aware of the agitated movement behind her and the increased clicking from the crowd of Demogorgons. She glared at him, shaking and grinding her teeth. Tears pooled along the ridges of her eyes. "Eleven years, Jonathan," she hissed through her teeth. When he opened his mouth, she cut him off, yelling, "You abandoned us!" Her voice echoed flatly in the black woods. "You abandoned _me_!"

Jonathan made a motion to grab her, but Twelve's hand moved instinctively, bringing the blade of the machete to meet his chest. He stopped in his tracks with the blade pressed flat against his collarbones and her knuckles digging into his shoulder. "No," she growled again.

Suddenly her arm jerked uncontrollably and an unpleasant force ripped the machete from her grip, dropping it to the ground. Twelve stumbled back, caught off guard. Jonathan still stood in front of her, his arms at his sides. His eyes darted quickly to the girl behind Twelve and finally, Twelve understood who the nameless woman was.

Jonathan saw the truth dawn on Twelve's face and explained, "Eleven saved my life."

Twelve turned and took a couple steps back, facing both Jonathan and Eleven. She was still shaking and her heart was pounding so loud she was certain they could hear it. Turning to Eleven, she asked, "You control the Demogorgons? Is that it?"

"She doesn't control them," Jonathan replied. Behind him, Eleven stared motionlessly at Twelve. "They just listen to her. They see her as a… matriarch."

"Jonathan," Eleven said quietly. "We have to go." Behind her, the Demogorgons were congregating, preparing to leave.

"Great," Twelve laughed spitefully. "Then she can take responsibility for all of the deaths."

"No, it wasn't hers attacking," Jonathan pleaded, stepping forward.

"What do you mean 'hers?'" Twelve asked. Jonathan looked uncomfortable, but didn't respond. "What is it supposed to mean?" she asked again. "Because it looks to me like she's leading the monsters that flayed my back, that killed my mom, that maimed Lucas, that took my brother and your brother, that killed Barbara and Steve."

"He's coming, Jonathan," Eleven said.

Jonathan glanced over his shoulder at her and turned back to Twelve. "None of this is how it seems," he said.

Twelve narrowed her eyes. "You're a traitor, Jonathan Byers," she replied spitefully.

"Jonathan," Eleven said, more firmly this time. She turned away, took a few steps toward her army, then looked back at them adding, "She's not who you think she is." Without another word, Eleven began walking away.

Jonathan gave Twelve a pained look and turned to follow Eleven.

"Is she talking about me? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Twelve asked, her arms shaking in anger. "Where are you going?"

Jonathan turned back to her and shook his head. "I'm sorry," he said. "I have to go now, but I'll find you."

Those last three words set Twelve off. With an anguished cry, she raced to him. He'd barely registered her movement before she made contact, punching him in his side. Her second machete lay forgotten on the ground as she landed two more blows, the final one clipping across his cheekbone and sending him sprawling to the ground. She didn't say a word as she followed him down, bringing another fist across his jaw, but she realized, through a haze of anguish, betrayal and fury, that he wasn't fighting back. Then the same unpleasant force as before lifted her from Jonathan and her last memory was the shifting world as she was tossed with terrifying ease through the air and then… _nothing_.


	17. Chapter 17

Seventeen

"Nancy… _Nancy_!"

The voice echoed and buzzed in her ear, thrumming painfully against the back of her head. She moaned and pushed her face deeper into the pillow.

" _Nancy_!"

With an annoyed shrug, she mumbled, "Leave me alone, Mike." A pair of strong hands clasped her shoulders and shook her. "Stop," she protested.

"Nancy, it's me."

A hazy figure leaned over her, pulling at her shoulders. Twelve's head rolled heavily as she tried to blink away the dizziness. Lucas' concerned face hovered above. His eyebrows were knotted and he frowned as he looked her over. Twelve pressed her hand to her face, wishing the world would stop spinning.

"Water," she muttered hoarsely.

Lucas handed her a bottle and Twelve rolled to her side to drink, letting water stream freely down her chin. When she'd finished, she rubbed her eyes and the world began to come into focus. She was lying on a bed of hoarfrost in a field twenty feet from the barrier. Brushing crumbs of frozen dirt from her numb cheek, she asked, "What day is it?"

Lucas helped her into a sitting position and wrapped her in his jacket. "Thursday," he replied, still eyeing her with concern. "What happened to you?"

"Thursday," Twelve repeated. "Twenty-four hours." She winced as a fresh wave of pain radiated from the back of her skull. Reaching back gingerly, she felt dampness at the base of her head and pulled away fingers tinted with blood.

Lucas wrapped his arm around her lower back, giving her support. "What happened?" he asked again. "Did you get the reading?"

Twelve's mind was still reeling and his words made no sense. "Reading?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. "The electric output from the gateway." He waited for her to put his words together and added, "You know, the reason why you went to Hawkins in the first place?"

Twelve shut her eyes and shook her head slowly, wishing the pain would subside. "I never made it to Hawkins," she replied.

"What do you mean?" Lucas asked frantically. He pulled her closer and grabbed her shoulder to turn her toward him. "Nancy, Dustin is furious that you abandoned the group. The army is forming. The Resistance is counting on you."

Twelve finished off the water bottle and dropped it in the dirt. "Fuck the Resistance," she said blearily. The world was shifting out of focus again. Her head rocked back and Lucas lunged forward to catch her.

"Don't close your eyes, Nancy," he pleaded. His hand was groping the back of her head. "I think you have a concussion. I'm going to get you to the infirmary." He began wedging his arm underneath her legs. "Stay awake."

Beneath the disorientation, Twelve knew there was anger and betrayal, but she couldn't focus her energy on anything more than keeping her eyes open. The earth slipped away as Lucas lifted her and they began the journey back to the Resistance.

"Talk to me, Nancy," Lucas said. He was looking forward as he spoke, trudging through the field. Behind him, Twelve could see the barrier disappearing in the distance. She tried to recall everything that happened on the other side, but it was like trying to grasp threads of a dream as they slipped through her fingers. "I should have gone with you," Lucas was mumbling.

"Jonathan's alive," Twelve said.

There was silence and the rhythmic swaying as Lucas continued to march through the frost. " _What_?" he said, disbelievingly.

Twelve shut her eyes to the spinning sky above. "Eleven is commanding a Demogorgon army," she managed, before losing consciousness.

* * *

"…don't want word of this getting out until I've had a chance to talk with her."

"I haven't told anyone."

"And you're sure that's what she said?"

The voices sounded distant and the words were just an obscure pattern of sounds—meaningless and homogenous. She couldn't identify who was speaking or what was being said, but she struggled to bring herself to the surface of her foggy consciousness.

"This is a nightmare," the agitated voice said. "Let me know when she wakes up."

After a moment, another voice said, "She's waking up now."

Twelve's eyes fluttered open and she squinted against the harsh fluorescent light overhead. Two forms stood on either side of her hospital bed and as the initial glare of the light faded, she identified Dustin and Lucas. Propping herself up on her elbows, Twelve looked around. She was in a room sectioned off by heavy white tarps. The colorless cement floor and visible ductwork in the ceiling far above confirmed her suspicion that she was back in the Resistance's headquarters—another warehouse by the looks of it. In the corner of her room, Kane stood at attention. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, but she was willing to bet he was eager to listen in on their conversations.

"How are you feeling?" Lucas asked.

Twelve spotted the IV in her hand and followed the tube to a half-empty plastic bag hanging to her left. Printed in faded blue letters at the top of the deflating bag were the words: _Lactated Ringer's_.

Dustin clamped his hand around her forearm and leaned in. The bill of his hat shrouded his eyes from the overhead light, casting his face in a shadow that Twelve couldn't see through. "We need to talk," he said darkly.

There was a ripping sound, like Velcro being peeled apart and the rustle of a new body entering the room. Dustin withdrew, revealing the woman who had just entered. She was older—probably in her fifties—and was wearing green scrubs with a stethoscope hanging around her neck. She gave Dustin a piercing gave before asking Twelve, "How are we doing?"

Dustin glanced at Twelve and Lucas. "Come see me when you get out," he said, before walking out.

The doctor barely acknowledged his exit. She continued to stare at Twelve, holding a clipboard against her waist. Twelve sat up completely, curling over to hang her head forward. The hospital gown she was wearing pulled apart, letting the cool air of the warehouse dry the sweat that clung to her back. She frowned suddenly, realizing that she was naked underneath the gown. She bunched the thin blankets that covered her into her lap. "My tongue hurts," she said finally.

"Yeah," the doctor said, raising her eyebrows and walking to the foot of the bed. "I would expect that. You bit it pretty hard during your seizure."

Twelve looked at Lucas, but he was staring at his hands wrapped around the bed rail. "Seizure?" she asked.

The doctor placed the clipboard on the mattress at the foot of the bed. "Do you remember what happened to you?" she asked. When Twelve gave no indication of answering, the doctor continued, "Mr. Sinclair brought you here severely dehydrated, unconscious, with blood loss and possibly concussed." She pursed her lips and glanced quickly at Lucas who hadn't moved an inch. "Are you sure you don't remember what happened while you were in the Vale?"

Twelve stared at the clipboard as flashes of memories from her confrontation with Jonathan and Eleven raced through her mind. She rubbed her knuckles, remembering how she'd attacked Jonathan and, for a split second, the fury of that moment rose in her again and she felt her cheeks flush. Needing to busy her hands somehow, she grabbed the IV and tore out the needle, flinging the blankets aside. "I need to go," she said firmly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.

The doctor rushed over, grabbing Twelve's arm. "No," she said, looking alarmed. "You need fluids. You have a laceration on the back of your head and possibly a fractured skull. You're not going anywhere."

Twelve shook her hand off. "I'll heal," she said flatly.

The doctor opened her mouth to protest, but Lucas stepped to her side. "She'll be fine," he said quietly. He nodded at Twelve and stepped through the white curtains. A minute later he returned holding Twelve's clothes. "We're leaving now," he told the doctor.

Twelve slid off of the bed, her feet landing on the frigid floor, and held the back of her gown together with one hand. As she passed the foot of the bed to collect her clothes from Lucas, the doctor said to her, "I'd still like to discuss that scar on your back."

Twelve turned, raising her eyebrows at the request. She wasn't sure how to respond, but Lucas butted in. "You know who she is, Doctor," he said with a note of finality.

The doctor's nostrils flared. "When a patient comes in to the infirmary with a six-inch, bone-deep cut from the base of her skull to the crown of her head, seizing, unresponsive, anemic, with an unrecognized blood type, and four hours later removes her own IV and wants to walk out the door, I'm not concerned _who_ she is," the doctor said heatedly. "I'm concerned _what_ she is."

The silence that followed was unbearable. Lucas stared at the doctor, breathing heavily and clenching his jaw. "Is that all?" he asked evenly.

The doctor tipped her head and gave him a cold smile before leaving.

Lucas stared at the seam in the curtains as the fabric fluttered in her absence. He handed the clothes to Twelve and said, "We need to get you to Dustin. There are things you two need to talk about." Then he stepped out of the room as well.

* * *

The Resistance was buzzing with life. Streets that had been empty just days before were packed with soldiers and defectors. Some were wearing dark uniforms, similar to Kane and Rebar's, but others were wearing the threadbare outfits that most colonials inherited from the time before the Vale. Some were filthy and underfed, while others were well-groomed and fit. Groups were clumping around uniformed guards to take part in drills and learn combat. In one alleyway, targets had been erected and lines of eager colonials were waiting their turn to test out some firearms.

Twelve tugged her hat lower and flipped up her collar, covering everything but her eyes as they walked. Lucas had warned her that she should avoid being recognized until Dustin told her otherwise. Although Twelve was getting tired of Dustin's constant commands, this was one she didn't mind. Blending in and avoiding attention was what she'd been doing for the better part of the past decade. It came as second nature to her.

The two-thousand colonial defectors they'd estimated had shown up within the first two days. By Thursday, their number had reached three thousand and by Friday morning, they'd reached three-thousand five-hundred. They had one-thousand more soldiers than they could arm, Lucas explained to her as they wove through the crowded streets. And it was one-thousand more people to feed.

When they reached the weapons warehouse, Lucas turned to her and shoved his fists into his pockets. "Dustin's going to want to act fast," he said. "Be prepared. This fight is coming sooner than you might expect." Twelve gave him a quick nod and he pulled open the door.

One of the weapons tables had been setup on the second floor; chairs circled it and the light above gleamed brilliantly, creating a blindingly white spot in the center of the tabletop. Hopper looked up when they walked in. He was flanked by Lieutenant Hayes and Dustin. Across from them were Scott and Kane. A map was spread out in front of them, half covered with notes, pencils and mugs. The two empty chairs to the left of Scott indicated that Lucas and Twelve were expected to join the meeting.

Dustin stood up. He wore a look of mixed concern and exasperation. The dark rings around his eyes told Twelve he hadn't been sleeping much lately. "How are you?" he asked. The tone of his voice quivered between concerned and professional. He seemed, for once, truly out of his element.

Lucas breezed past her and took one of the open seats. Following his lead, Twelve stood next to Scott and addressed the group. "Thank you for your concern," she said, raising her chin to Dustin. "I'll be okay." Up close she saw that multiple maps were unfolded across the table—a U.S. map, an Indiana map and a tristate map. The mugs that littered the table were filled with coffee or water or liquor and every person at the table was in varying states of sleep deprivation. She wanted to chalk that up to planning the invasion, but guilt needled its way to the forefront of her thoughts and she realized they'd been anxiously waiting for her return.

Bowing her head, she said to them, "I owe you all an apology." Chewing her bottom lip, she tried to come up with something more substantial—an excuse, an infallible explanation for her actions. But she came up empty-handed. "I want to believe that I went into the Vale without you because I was worried about your safety," she said, scanning the table and pausing at Kane and Hayes. "But my motivation was entirely selfish and my actions not only jeopardized the Resistance, they exhibited my disregard for your qualifications and abilities." The words flowed beautifully, astounding Twelve, whose emotions were much less organized. She chewed her bottom lip as she tried to think of a way to end her speech and finally sit down. The back of her head began throbbing again and she squeezed her eyes shut. When Lucas reached out and held her hand, she knew how to close. "I haven't worked as a team for a long time," she said, glancing back at him meaningfully. "And I am very sorry for my insubordination," she nodded at Dustin, who gaped back at her wordlessly, "and distrust," she added, looking at Kane and Hayes. With a quick squeeze of Lucas' hand, she sat down.

The chair beneath her creaked loudly in the ensuing silence. Dustin and Hopper looked at her speechlessly and the rest stared at the map absently. Finally, Hopper brought his hands together in a slow clap. At first Twelve thought he was mocking her, but when he turned, his expression was genuine appreciation. "Hear, hear," he said hoarsely.

While Hop pulled out a cigarette and lit it, Dustin began sliding the mugs off of their maps. After he'd finished, he planted his hands on the table, leaning under the lamp and looked up at Twelve. He seemed to fight for words before finally nodding and saying, "We're happy you're still here, Nan—Twelve." Pushing off with his palms, he rocked back to his feet and pulled off his hat. "We need to discuss what happened in the Vale, though," he said. Indicating Lucas, he added, "We were told that you didn't get to the gateway."

Twelve glanced at Lucas and untangled her hand from his. "That's right." She nodded. "I reached," she squinted at the ceiling, trying to remember, "maybe Franklin Township? Then the Demogorgons arrived."

"Demogorgons?" Dustin asked, leaning forward. "You didn't mention that to Lucas."

Twelve nodded. "Just one or two at first. They were young, small things," she explained, remembering the reapers as they crawled out of the shadows. "Then there were more and more. Fifty at least."

"Fifty!" Hopper exclaimed, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.

Dustin held up a hand to quiet him. "How is that possible?" he asked.

Twelve shrugged. "They didn't attack me," she said. "They just sort of enveloped me, walking toward Hawkins. At first there were a couple in front, but a mile later, they surrounded me." She looked squarely in Dustin's eyes. "I had no choice but to go with them."

Dustin let out his breath in a slow whistle. Around the table, everyone leaned forward, hanging onto her every word. "And they led you where?" Dustin asked.

Twelve glanced at Lucas. "You know already," she said. When Dustin didn't respond, she continued, "They led me to a clearing in the woods where I met a woman who was later identified as Eleven."

Dustin slid his fingers through his hair. "So she's really still alive?"

"You said Joyce's son was there too?" Hopper asked, flicking the ash from his cigarette.

Under the table, Twelve touched the tattoo on her wrist, then wrung her hands nervously, feeling the tenderness of her knuckles. "Jonathan was with Eleven, yes," she reported. "He said that she'd saved his life."

"How?" Hopper asked, still absentmindedly flicking his cigarette.

Twelve shrugged. "He wasn't very forthcoming." She screwed up her eyebrows, trying to remember their cryptic conversation in the shadowy woods of the Vale. "They were in a hurry to get somewhere."

"Where?" Hopper pushed, leaning forward.

"I don't know, Hop," Twelve replied. "They didn't say. All Eleven said was that 'he' was coming."

"'He?'" Hopper repeated. "Who's 'he?' Jonathan?"

Twelve shook her head. "No, Jonathan was already there. I think they were meeting someone else. Or running away from him." She shook her head again. "I don't know."

Hopper opened his mouth to say more, but Dustin cut him off. "What about Eleven?" he asked. "You told Lucas that Eleven was commanding the Demogorgons."

Every head snapped to attention and Twelve found herself the center of their alarmed stares. With the slightest nod, she said, "That's how it looked." Dustin shook his head in disbelief. "Jonathan said that she was their matriarch," Twelve continued. "They followed her and watched her every move. They were infatuated with her. It was bizarre."

Hopper crushed his cigarette beneath the heel of his boot. He wiped his hand across his beard and asked, "Are you sure?"

Twelve eyed him carefully. "I know what I saw."

Dustin let out his breath in a defeated sigh and looked at Lucas. "What do you think?" Dustin asked.

Lucas exchanged somber looks with Twelve and replied, "She's not lying."

"But you know what this means," Dustin shot back.

"What about the Byers kid?" Hopper cut in. "What do you think his role is in all of this?"

Twelve stared at the Indiana map until the crisscrossing lines blurred into the khaki color of the landscape. Beneath the edge of the table, her right index finger grazed the fine lines of Jonathan's name scrawled across her left wrist. The tattoo's outline was still raised and her touch reverberated deep inside her, like strumming the strings of a harp.

"Was he complicit?" Dustin asked, shaking her from the moment of reverie. "Was he working with Eleven?"

Everyone at the table was staring at her in rapt attention. Twelve pulled her finger from the tattoo and pushed her hands into her jacket pockets. She cleared her throat and said reluctantly, "Yes."


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Thank you everyone who has left feedback, followed or faved this story! It's always so nice to know someone is enjoying the read. I hope you like this next chapter!

* * *

Eighteen

After the debriefing, their meeting switched tactics and began focusing on strategizing a plan of attack. Without the reading from the megohmmeter, Scott and Dustin couldn't accurately determine how many EMPs would be necessary to close the gateway, so all twelve devices would be transported into the Vale and, if necessary, they would all be detonated simultaneously. When a few voices of concern rose at the instructions, Dustin reminded the council passionately that the destruction of the gateway was their primary goal. Failure was not an option.

Lucas had been right when he warned Twelve that the attack would happen quickly. Because of the unexpectedly high turnout of defectors, they had to fast-track the plans. Food was their biggest concern. The Resistance hadn't prepared for such a large army and their supplies would dwindle rapidly. With the threat of provisions running out, Dustin and Hopper made the executive decision to begin the mission on the morning of February 10th. The Resistance army would breach the Vale in one week.

After the meeting, the maps that covered the table were marked with black _X_ 's and arrows. Three of Hopper's cigarette butts had been used as makeshift pawns, marking units of soldiers. The unease that hung overhead like a dark cloud reflected the council's resignation to attack while knowing that the Resistance's army far outnumbered the Demogorgons Eleven commanded. The Resistance's attack would ultimately end in Eleven and Jonathan's demise.

"If they surrender," Dustin had said weakly, after their discussion was coming to a close, "we can take them prisoner."

"Prisoner?" Hopper repeated.

"Give them a chance to explain themselves," Dustin reasoned.

"She's telekinetic. You remember that, right?" Lucas added heatedly. "She flipped a van once, remember? She disintegrated a Demogorgon with her _mind_ , Dustin." He glanced at Twelve and said evenly, "Take Jonathan prisoner, if you want. But Eleven can't be detained."

* * *

Twelve needed rest after her stay in the infirmary, but with the attack planned in just one week, she had no time to return to her apartment. Instead, Dustin dismissed the council and led her downstairs to the weapons room. The wooden crates of guns, blades, batons and flails had been opened and registries were pinned to the side of each box, listing serial numbers and the soldiers wielding the weapons for daily training.

Dustin headed to the furthest table where his flails had been lined up in a precise row. The crate next to the table held more and the clipboard dangling from the edge of the box indicated that fifteen flails were currently being used outside in training sessions.

Dustin chewed his cheek as he gazed over his inventory. He looked worried and distant, staring at the weapons, but lost in thought. "We don't have enough to arm everyone," he said, still staring at the flails. "Everything combined, our entire armory, we're still about a thousand short." He looked up at Twelve, exhausted and overwhelmed. "I've sent Lonnie to raid three military bases in Indiana and Ohio," he explained. "Last we checked, they hadn't been taken over by the Authority. We got most of our semi-automatics from a base near Dayton." He nodded to an open crate halfway across the room. "And we left a lot behind in that base. Assuming it hasn't all been confiscated by the Authority…" He trailed off and shook his head. "That's not why we're here." He picked up a flail and handed it to Twelve. "I need to teach you how to use one of these," he said.

Twelve accepted the flail, rolled it in the palm of her hand and then placed it back on the table. Remembering the panic that followed her baton's malfunction, she told Dustin, "I don't want to use one of these. I'm taking my machetes and that's all."

Dustin gave her an exasperated look. "Fine," he acquiesced. "You don't have to be armed with a flail when you return to the Vale, but you're going to learn how to use one regardless." He gave her a firm look, picked the flail back up and held it out stubbornly.

Twelve barely contained a smile. She accepted the flail and, without a word, Dustin turned and led her to the very back of the warehouse. Through the back door, they entered a shallow courtyard littered with empty oil drums and tires. A rusted chain link fence woven through with ivy barricaded the courtyard and in the very center stood a peculiar statue. Twelve approached it, eyes narrowed skeptically and flail hanging limply at her side. It was about eight feet tall, black with ruby hues beneath. Its legs were spread a little and the feet melted into the metal welding at the base. The arms curved outward, reaching forward and the head was a sharpened beak beginning to break open into five dangerous jaws. Twelve touched the torso and said, "Its…"

"A Demogorgon," Dustin finished, standing behind her with his arms crossed proudly.

The statue had been hastily assembled. As Twelve squeezed the bottom flap of jaw, she noticed the worn tread along the ridge. The entire head had been created from old tires. The arms seemed like a combination of heavy rope and wood with more black rubber curled menacingly at the end, like claws. Whatever Dustin had used to paint the statue carried a harsh chemical scent that left her light-headed. She touched the torso again and flicked it. A hollow echo bounced around the courtyard.

"It's PVC piping," Dustin said. "It's hollow, but it has a half-inch thick wall and is roughly the same strength as a Demogorgon's natural defense."

Twelve backed up a few feet and admired the dummy. In the daylight it was clearly nothing more than a hastily prepared target. But in the dark or from a distance, the statue would pass for a hunting reaper. She turned to Dustin and nodded her approval.

Dustin pointed at the flail in Twelve's hand, then turned his finger to the statue. "If you can pierce the pipe, you can break a Demogorgon's shield." When Twelve rolled her eyes, he said, "I know you can break through without a specialized weapon. But I want to know how easy it is for you. Remember, I'm arming civilians with these. If that flail can't break through with ease in the first hit, then we might be in trouble."

Twelve lifted the flail and tried to remember Dustin's quick demonstration when she'd first arrived. The switch on the side of the handle was situated beneath her thumb. She pressed it firmly and with a light clicking sound, the metal globe at the top of the handle released. She let the full three feet of cable uncoil before removing her thumb. The handle jerked as the globe reached the end of the cable and swung heavily at her ankles. Taking another step back, she began rocking her arm, letting the weight of the globe swing mesmerizingly until she increased the force and brought it into a full circle. She barely had to exert any strength, but the globe began picking up speed, faster and faster until it was a gleaming chrome blur. Twelve gradually shifted her arm to pull the spinning globe above her head, twirling like a lasso. With her free hand, she reached up and twisted the base of the handle. The immediate shrill hum that emanated from the flail told her it was electrified and ready to land.

"Remember, just hit the torso," Dustin said as she advanced. "That's the only part made of piping."

When she was close enough, Twelve took a final lunge and brought down the flail. With an earth-shattering crack, the metal globe cut through the dummy's torso, rupturing a section of pipe on entry and spraying them with shards of painted plastic as it broke completely through to the other side. Twelve lifted her arm to let the flail finish its circuit before allowing the globe to land heavily in the snow at her feet. She stared at the destruction as her breath clung in white clouds to the air in front of her. A fine stream of smoke issued from the blackened and melted gash in the pipe and pieces of plastic peppered the metal base of the statue.

Twelve heard Dustin approaching from behind. She didn't turn, but asked, "Are you sure that plastic pipe was as strong as a Demogorgon?"

She heard Dustin's soft laugh. "Definitely," he assured her. "Mr. Clarke and I ran tons of studies. We've been working on this for almost a year and the PVC piping is the closest we came to an equivalent representation of the Demogorgons' defensive capabilities."

Twelve pressed the switch on the flail again and the cable slowly retracted, lifting the globe from a mound of snow. She looked the weapon over, then turned and handed it back to Dustin.

"Are you still sure you don't want one?" he asked with a wide grin.

Twelve stared at the flail and then glanced over her shoulder at the decimated torso of the Demogorgon statue. She shook her head. "I'll stick with my machetes, but you can arm civilians." She patted Dustin on the shoulder as she headed for the door. "Killing reapers will never be easier," she added.


	19. Chapter 19

Nineteen

The soft edge of her hat was pulled down to her eyebrows and she'd zipped her jacket up to her nose so she was just another cold civilian cutting through the main strip of warehouses and then the string of old apartment buildings and storefronts. Training sessions were still taking place and organizers were standing outside of housing quarters, assigning lodging to newcomers. A few of the lines for firearm training were so long that oil drums had been set up on the street's corners and fires were crackling inside, warming people as they filed past.

Dustin had tried to stop Twelve as she hurried through the weapons warehouse. He'd wanted to brief her on the EMPs. It was important that she knew how and when to detonate them, he'd told her. But the emotionless look she tried to cast crumbled in front of him and she said, as steadily as possible, that she needed the rest of the day to reflect and prepare. What that meant to Dustin, she didn't know, but he let her go with a sympathetic nod.

The defectors knew she was in the Resistance. Dustin had said that they were spreading that information the night that she left for the Vale. But no one looked closely at the lone girl trudging along in faded clothes with her head hung low. They expected something godly. They expected her to be surrounded by elite guards. They were waiting for the beacon of hope that symbolized the end of their oppression. But Twelve was none of those things. She was average looking, but for the scars and tattoos. Her clothes were drab; her nails had dirt caked beneath them; her hair was unbrushed and oily most days; and she'd grown so accustomed to retreating into her own solitude, her eyes had become wary and skeptical. She wasn't their god and she wasn't their hero. What beacon of hope had none to give?

Beyond the Resistance's stomping grounds, Twelve passed into the field that led to the Vale's barrier. She'd walked along the same path a few days earlier, but this time she stopped halfway through the field. Alone and far from the eyes of expectant civilians, she stripped her jacket off. The hat rolled off next and then her long-sleeved shirt. She tossed the clothes in a pile to her right. Unbuckling her belt, she removed the machetes and then the hunting knife strapped to her back. On top of the weapons she added her boots and finally her socks. Frost and snow bit at her bare toes and jagged edges of ice scraped at the soles of her feet. The fine, white hairs on her arms stood on end and her breath was carried away on a frigid gust of wind.

Clenching her jaw and frowning, Twelve fought against the urge to shiver. _Manage this_ , she told herself. _Embrace the pain; endure the discomfort_. Again and again she told herself, _Embrace the pain; endure the discomfort_. She shut her eyes and listened to the wind rolling past, the subtle whistling as it caught the puckered pits of frozen puddles and snow drifts. She let the gusts tug stubbornly at her hair and the fabric of her pants, let it cut through the fluttering cotton of her tank top and reminded herself that she was immovable. She had evolved beyond pain and hunger. She was faster. She was stronger than ever before. And in that moment, she triggered her trance and the world plunged into an instant hush.

The wind ceased to matter. Its charging roar fell on deaf ears. The locks of hair tugged free from her band and whipping freely before her eyes were of no consequence. The cold that leached into the raw soles of her feet faded and all she felt was the solid earth beneath her and uninterrupted space around her. The gentle rise and fall of her chest was a seamlessly liquid movement that slowed until it was barely perceptible and the soothing metronome of her own heartbeat, like the soft rush of tide, slowed to almost a standstill.

In this absolute state of calm, Twelve shut her eyes. Everything fell away from her—her pain, her fears, the Resistance, Lucas, Dustin, Hopper, Holly, Jonathan. She shed them like layers of skin falling from her body and floating away in the wind. Her scars, her tattoos, her past and future. Her name, before and now, floated away in the endlessness that surrounded her. There was nothing but absolute tranquility.

A presence approached her from behind—a person, moving toward her anxiously. A hand curled around her shoulder and tugged. Twelve's eyes fluttered open and, like breaking the surface of water, a rush of air and noise assaulted her senses. The hand pulled on her shoulder again, turning her to face Hopper's alarmed expression. Behind him, the sky had grown dark and the field was lit by the twinkling starlight and icy glow of the moon.

"I said, what are you doing?" Hopper asked, puffs of white mist rising with each word.

Twelve tried to step back, but found herself standing on numb feet. She tumbled backward, landing heavily on the ground.

"Jesus," Hopper whispered, kneeling in front of her. Twelve looked down at the startling shade of red and plum her feet had become. As she bent to touch them, she saw the mottled white and cherry red of the skin on her hands and forearms. Pressing her fingers together, she felt little sensation.

Hopper was raking through her clothes and forcing her feet into the socks. "Have you been out here the whole time?" he asked, wrapping her coat around her and jamming the soft hat back onto her head.

"Whole time…?" Twelve repeated bemusedly.

"You've been gone for six hours," Hopper told her. He was vigorously rubbing her feet between his hands and moving to block the wind with his body. "Have you been standing out here half-naked this whole time?"

Twelve cupped her stiff hands around her mouth and breathed into them, relishing the warmth as it coated her fingers and palms. "I can't believe it was six hours. It felt like just a minute."

"If you were anyone else, you'd be dead," Hopper shot back angrily. As he continued rubbing her feet, the feeling began to return painfully. "It's five degrees out here," he said.

Twelve stretched her feet and flexed her toes. The movement was difficult, but she still grabbed her boots and laced them up. The frostbite damaged the nerves in her toes and the slender arch of her foot, but it would heal. Within a couple hours, she expected to be back to normal. But for now she accepted Hopper's help and kept an arm around his shoulders as she limped back to the Resistance with him.

"What exactly were you doing out here?" he asked as they slowly made their way out of the field.

"Training," she replied simply.


	20. Chapter 20

Twenty

The temperature took a drastic turn in the middle of the night and in the tepid predawn glow, Twelve stood in a field of fog, intent on triggering her trance again. The damage caused by the cold from the night before had completely healed, leaving only a grey discoloration in a couple of her toes. Learning from her mistakes, Twelve didn't disrobe before meditating. She placed her feet side by side, held her hands against her hips and shut her eyes, willing the world to hush and calm to envelope her.

* * *

Four hours later, the sun had risen and Twelve returned to the Resistance, having managed an unbroken meditation and further bolstered her confidence that she could slip in and out of the trance state at will. It was something she knew she would have to rely on if she were to return to the Vale. Though, as she inconspicuously wove her way through the throngs of eager defectors and soldiers in the streets, she wasn't sure how much fighting would actually happen. At best, the Resistance outnumbered Eleven's Demogorgon army thirty-five to one. Even their least capable civilians could survive those odds. Eleven and Jonathan on the other hand…

Twelve spotted a young man wearing old army fatigues staring at her as she passed. She pulled her hat lower, despite the oddly warm temperature that day, and turned down an alleyway. She rubbed her chin with her knuckles absentmindedly as she fell to the same dark thoughts that had been haunting her. If Jonathan fought back, if he refused to surrender, he'd be killed. That was what they'd agreed on in their war meeting.

Images came to mind of the Jonathan from Hawkins. She remembered him working diligently in the darkroom with her, developing the enlarged photograph of the Demogorgon. How his features had seemed so sharp in the contrast of the red glow. She remembered him pinning the photo of Will to their high school's bulletin board and the abject loss in his eyes when, days later, he was choosing a coffin for his brother. She remembered his determination as they set up the Demogorgon death trap in his house and then she remembered the tenderness in his touch when he held her in his dad's cabin during the rainstorm. Then she thought of him in the Vale, standing next to Eleven. She remembered his cryptic remarks and the fear and shame in his eyes. Twelve clenched her fists as fleeting wave of betrayal resurfaced, but it was almost immediately replaced with suffocating terror at the thought of his dead body.

With a little audible gasp, Twelve found herself standing in the middle of the alley with her balled fists pushed nervously into the underside of her jaw. She blinked and looked around, realizing that she'd been standing there for a while, agonizing over her memories. Meanwhile, a few curious onlookers stood at the mouth of the alleyway, squinting at her suspiciously. Twelve rushed out of the alley and ignored the question "Hey, are you…" as she passed.

She reached the weapons warehouse—a building she was beginning to think of as the war room—a few minutes later to find two vehicles parked out front. One was a pickup truck and the other she recognized immediately as one of the Authority's military cargo trucks. Her hands instinctively reached for her machetes as a hot anger boiled inside her. The last time she'd seen one of those trucks, it was carrying Thompson away from her battered body.

Inside the warehouse, she raced to the second floor and flung open the door. A group of people milling around the main table, turned abruptly. Twelve's fingers slowly disengaged from the machetes' handles as she scanned the group. Dustin and Lucas were at the head of the table; then Lieutenant Hayes, Scott and Kane. At the other end of the table was Lonnie and—Twelve's eyebrows knotted curiously—Chris, the guard from her old colony. She took a few steps inside and asked, "What's going on?"

A few glances were exchanged before Dustin cleared his throat. "Lonnie just returned with the extra firearms and…" He pressed his lips together and held out his hand to Lonnie.

"I met Chris on my way back here," Lonnie explained. "He said he was looking for the Resistance. Looking for _you_ , actually, Twelve. And I wouldn't have brought him here but, his reasons were… compelling."

Chris wore his usual sheepish grin and said embarrassedly, "Hey, Twelve. I'm sorry for this."

"Tell her what you told me," Lonnie said impatiently.

Twelve took a few more steps forward as Chris' smile faded and he explained, "The Authority knows you're here and they know what you're planning. I don't know how they found out, but the information leaked and they know all of the defectors are here. They're worried about a revolt or a revolution or something." He scratched his head and looked nervously at Lonnie. "They have an army," he continued, "and they're coming here to wipe out the Resistance."

Twelve felt like the wind had been knocked out of her. She looked frantically at her own hands, then propped herself on the back of a chair, regaining her composure. To her right, Dustin swore under his breath. "How did you not see this coming?" she demanded.

"There are no laws against exiles colonizing in the Badlands," Dustin said, shaking his head. "That's the beauty of the Badlands. Outside of the colonies, there are no restrictions. We're free to do whatever we please, including marching on the Vale. This is lawless territory."

"The Authority is claiming jurisdiction over the colonials and refusing to recognize their defection," Chris replied. "They're treating this as a mass abduction and claim to be acting in the 'welfare of colonial citizens.'" He scanned the room slowly before adding, "They'll be here in three days."

"How big is their army?" Lieutenant Hayes asked.

Chris shook his head. "It doesn't matter. They have bombs that could wipe out the Resistance without them setting one foot in this territory."

"They can't do that," Hayes retorted heatedly. "If they're coming here under the guise of saving the defectors, then dropping a bomb doesn't exactly agree with their mission."

"That's true, but their army will still be bigger than the Resistance."

"How big?" Dustin cut in. He had a familiar twinkle in his eye that told Twelve he was already working through a plan.

Chris shook his head again. "They didn't share that information with me. I'm just a guard."

Lucas shifted uncomfortably and addressed Chris. "You need to tell her the rest."

Chris looked at Twelve and his cheeks flushed brilliantly in the harsh fluorescent light. "The Authority is particularly interested in you," he said, shuffling his feet. "The reason why I left the colony wasn't just to warn the Resistance. It was to get Holly out before the Authority took her hostage."

For a second time, Twelve felt her legs go weak and the blood drain from her face. She didn't look away from Chris though. "Where is she?" Twelve asked evenly, hiding the panic that was on the verge of destroying her.

"She's safe," Lucas said quickly.

"She's here," Dustin added, "in my office with Hopper and Rebar."

"And Joyce," Lonnie added.

Twelve didn't wait for another word. She spun on her heels and raced downstairs. Before heading back outside, she breezed past the weapons tables and grabbed two flails.


	21. Chapter 21

Twenty-One

She stormed through the Resistance, jaw set, eyes locked ahead. The flails were clutched in her white-knuckled fists and her machetes swung freely at her hips. Her jacket was half-zipped and parted at the top, tugging back in the wind and revealing the ' _X_ ' emblazoned into the soft of her neck and the puckered scars under her jaw from the Demogorgon's attack. Her hat had fallen off as she raced through the warehouse and now her hair flowed wildly behind her. With her head tilted forward as she powered through the streets and her eyes narrowed dangerously, she drew the attention of defectors milling nervously around and soldiers lining the sidewalks. Before long, the curious whispers erupted into cries and cheers.

 _Is that her?_

 _Twelve!_

 _She's here!_

 _She's alive!_

Like a riptide, tearing apart the Resistance's training schedule and concentration, Twelve cut through the crowds that formed. She was deaf to their cries, numb to their touches as she clung to the solitary thought that Holly was here and if she was here, she was in danger.

Dustin's office door had barely swung open when a blonde streak flew across the room. "Nancy!" her voice shrieked, before Holly wrapped herself around Twelve. Curling her arms protectively around her sister, Twelve pressed her face into Holly's shoulder and peered across the room at Joyce and Hopper. "Everyone said you were dead," Holly cried, shaking under Twelve's embrace.

Joyce's eyes, round and nervous, watched Twelve as she untangled herself from Holly. "I—I didn't know what to do," she said, pressing her fingers against her mouth. "Chris showed up and I didn't know if I should believe him, but…" She looked to Hopper for reassurance.

Twelve placed the flails on Dustin's desk. "Did you run into any problems on your way here?" Twelve asked.

"No, nothing," Joyce insisted. She was terrified. Twelve could see it in her eyes and the tremble in her fingers as she lit a cigarette.

From the doorway, Holly asked in a hollow voice, "Why did you want everyone to think you were dead?"

Twelve ran her fingers through her hair and exhaled slowly. She pressed her palm against the handles of the flails and said, "I need to show you both how to use these."

"What are you talking about?" Hopper asked, stepping forward.

Twelve held up her hands. "This doesn't concern you, Hop," she said shortly.

"Like hell it doesn't!" he hollered, slamming his palm on the desk. Behind him, Joyce jumped and began puffing on her cigarette. "Whether you like it or not, I'm your senior officer and you do not have clearance to distribute weapons to civilians."

Twelve glared at him, grinding her teeth. Behind her, Holly's sweet voice asked, "What are they?"

"Let's talk," Twelve said to Hopper, pointing toward Dustin's makeshift sitting room.

Neither Joyce nor Holly made a sound as she and Hopper left. Outside of the office, Rebar stood guard, listening to the whole exchange.

In the side room, Twelve lowered her voice as she addressed Hopper. "Hop, I'm not trying to step on your toes here."

"Yeah?" he replied bitterly, crossing his arms. "Then how about explaining what you _are_ doing."

"This information can't leave this room," Twelve said in a hushed tone. She gave Hopper a meaningful look. "Holly is O-negative."

Hopper unfolded his arms and swore softly.

"It's why I wanted her to think I was dead. It's why I asked Joyce to look after her. It's why I never wanted her to leave the colony in the first place."

Hopper rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. "She's safer here than the colony," he reasoned. "The Resistance is full of soldiers and trained fighters."

"Yeah, until they all leave for the Vale."

Hopper seemed to be at a loss for words.

"She can't come to the Vale," Twelve said. "But she and Joyce can learn to defend themselves if the worst should happen." Hopper nodded, but Twelve wasn't finished. "And since you're now privy to this information," she continued, heatedly, " _and_ the commander of the Resistance, you can assign a handful of soldiers to their security, right?"

Hopper leaned back and sighed wearily.

"Right?" Twelve urged.

"You know what's going on with the Authority," Hopper said matter-of-factly.

"Yeah, I do."

Hopper nodded. "I need to get back and chat with Kane and Dustin and the rest," he said, turning around. "In the meantime, how about you show Holly and Joyce how to use those flails?"

* * *

"I'm sorry," Twelve sighed as she sat on the mattress next to Holly.

Holly perched on the edge of the bed, staring at the chipping corner of countertop while twirling a thin lock of hair around her finger. One lantern glowed feebly from atop the milk crate in the middle of the room. Its dim glow cast peculiar, wobbly shadows against the walls and illuminated their reflections in the windows. Twelve avoided looking in the glass, though, having been shocked at the difference between her scarred, worn and cold reflection compared to the shocking beauty and clarity of her sister. Worst of all was the dingy setting that Holly took residence in without hesitation, her fearlessness handling weapons and crushing the Demogorgon targets. She was the last pure thing in Twelve's world and, thanks to Twelve, Holly was being corrupted.

"Why did you lie to me?" Holly asked, still staring at the counter.

"I didn't lie to you—"

"Maybe not directly, but you spread the rumor about your own death specifically for me," Holly said, turning abruptly. Tears welled in her eyes, but her expression was fierce. "Chris told me how he found you after they'd struck you out."

Twelve dropped her head in her hands. Of course. She'd forgotten that Chris knew everything. He was the one who spread the news of her death after she'd made him swear to tell Holly first. "I had no choice," she spoke through her fingers.

"Other than to _lie_ to me? Do you have any idea what I went through?" The tears finally spilled over and Holly impatiently brushed them away. "My God, Nancy. You can't imagine."

Despite herself, Twelve smiled as a memory resurfaced.

"What are you grinning about?" Holly asked scathingly.

"You," Twelve replied. "You sound just like Mom. She used to say the same stuff when I stayed out too late with friends or when she thought my relationship was moving too fast with a boy I used to like."

Holly's expression softened. "Steve?"

Twelve lifted her head, surprised at Holly's response. "You remember him?"

"Not well," Holly answered, pressing her fingers into her chin thoughtfully.

"Yeah, that's the one," Twelve said with a rueful smile. "He was trouble. Charming as all get-out, but I made some poor choices trying to impress him."

Holly returned the smile. "What about Jonathan?" she asked.

Twelve's stomach dropped and she turned away quickly. "It's getting late," she said, standing and stretching. She yawned exaggeratedly and moved to blow out the lamp. Before she had a chance, there was a loud commotion outside of the door.

"Get out of my way!" a familiar voice cried. "No, I need in there, now!"

A moment before the door violently swung open, Twelve identified the voice as Joyce's and it was her livid face that appeared in the doorway. Behind her, a guard was looking confused and helpless.

"Joyce, what are you doing here?" Twelve asked. Though she had a feeling she knew the reason.

"Is it true?" Joyce asked, staring wildly at Twelve and shaking head to toe. Lucas appeared in the shadows behind her, drawn out of his apartment by the loud voices.

For a second, Twelve considered playing dumb, but after her conversation with Holly, she felt the deceit crumble inside her. She bowed her head and said, "Yes, it's true."

Joyce made a weak sound and slumped against the wall. Lucas stepped inside and shut the door. He gave Twelve a cautious look as he helped Joyce to the bed.

"What's true?" Holly asked, looking from Joyce to Twelve. "What's going on?"

Twelve shifted the lamp to the floor and sat down on the milk crate. Lucas, Joyce and Holly lined up on the edge of the mattress and listened to Twelve as she recounted her experience in the Vale. She was vague about her reaction to Jonathan, but the fact that there was an altercation couldn't be hidden. Joyce, however, didn't seem concerned. Her eyes lit up at the mention of her son, alive and well, and she clung to that to the end of the story.

"Did he say anything else?" she asked, the creases in her forehead burrowing deeper with each second. "Does he know I'm still alive?"

Twelve shrugged. "I don't know. He didn't say much." She heard low voices outside her door.

"We have to get him back," Joyce pleaded. "I can't do this again. I have to get him back."

Just then there was a knock on the door and Hopper's face peeked in. "Everything okay in here?" he asked, looking from Twelve to Joyce.

"We're fine," Twelve replied. The scene must have looked odd to him: Twelve sitting on an old milk crate in the middle of the room with three people perched on the bed staring at her.

"I- I should go," Joyce said, her voice quivering. Lucas helped her up and followed her out the door, casting another uneasy look at Twelve before shutting the door behind them.

Twelve stared at the floor for a minute after they'd left. Then, feeling truly tired and spent, she leaned over and blew out the lamp, plunging them into darkness. As she made her way to the bed, Twelve felt the agonizing crush of her role in all of this. She slid off her boots and climbed under the covers, feeling Holly already curled up on the other edge of the mattress.

Before she let herself drift off, Holly's voice, small and light, cut through the night. "What will happen to Jonathan?"


	22. Chapter 22

Twenty-Two

Two hours before dawn, Twelve woke and slipped out of bed. She took a seat back on the milk crate and began focusing on her trance again. Eager to control the state, she spent the morning in meditation increments. She induced the trance for one minute, then spent one minute out, followed by two minutes in and then one minute out, then three minutes in and one minute out. She continued, easing her consciousness into meditation, then reawakening again and again until Holly woke up as the sun broke over the horizon.

Outside of the apartment, three guards were waiting patiently. One was Rebar, but the other two Twelve didn't recognize. According to Rebar, they'd been assigned to round-the-clock protection of Holly Wheeler. Twelve felt a wave of relief and turned to her sister. "I have to report to Hopper and Dustin," she said, closing Holly's hands around a flail. "Don't go anywhere without this and don't leave your guards."

Holly raised her eyebrows. "I just wanted to find some breakfast," she said. But her hand tightened around the flail.

"We can take you to the mess hall," Rebar said, motioning down the hall.

Twelve hugged Holly and they parted on the sidewalk. For a few moments, she watched her sister walk away, flanked by armed soldiers, and tried to convince herself that Holly was safe. But she wouldn't truly be safe until the Vale was destroyed. With that thought in mind, she turned and headed toward the war room.

She arrived at the warehouse at the same time as Scott and Lonnie. The three of them made their way upstairs where Lucas, Kane, Lieutenant Hayes, Chris and Dustin were waiting.

"Where's Hop?" Twelve asked, glancing around the room.

"Not here yet," Dustin replied. "And he wasn't at his apartment either."

Scott took a seat at the table and Lonnie followed suit. Twelve thought he looked particularly agitated this morning. Though, she wasn't very familiar with him. Maybe he wasn't a morning person. She watched as he sat heavily in the metal folding chair and stared at his own hands. He looked sad—not the usual withdrawn, arrogance he typically exuded. With an almost audible click, Twelve realized suddenly that he must've found out about Jonathan as well. Turning to Dustin again, she asked, "How's Joyce?"

Before he had a chance to answer, the door opened and Hopper stepped in. He hesitated in the open doorway, leaning against the knob and looking spent. After a cursory glance around the room, he nodded and shut the door. He took another scan of the room, hesitating on Lonnie who was still absentmindedly staring at his own hands, before announcing, "Joyce was apprehended an hour ago trying to cross into the Vale." Amid shocked reactions, he held out his hands to quiet everyone. "She's fine. Her motive was… well, we all know the story. She's been confined to her apartment with a guard watching her."

Lonnie stood up so fast, his chair topped behind him, crashing loudly against the metal grate floor. "I'm going to go talk to her," he said, excusing himself as he swept past the table.

In the brief noise that followed, Hopper stepped to Twelve's side and whispered in her ear, "She wants to talk to you later today."

Twelve nodded and Hopper took Lonnie's seat. His presence seemed to command an order to the group and the chatter stopped immediately. Hopper looked up at Dustin, an expectant smile curling across his features as he lit a cigarette. "What's the plan, boss?"

"Right," Dustin said, tugging his baseball cap on and switching gears. "The Commander and I spent a few hours last night discussing our options."

"Of which there are few," Lieutenant Hayes added sourly.

Dustin gave her a conceding nod, but continued. "We know the Authority is coming. So we can't continue with our original plan of sending all of our men into the Vale." Dustin nodded at Chris as he delved deeper. "In fact, considering the potential size of the Authority's army, we can't even send in half of the Resistance. If we want any chance of staving off the Authority's power, we have to keep the bulk of our forces here while we send a smaller group of trained soldiers into the Vale to destroy the gateway."

"You'll never get to the gateway without Eleven knowing," Twelve said.

"We're anticipating having to fight through her… _forces_ ," Hopper explained.

"Not to belabor the point," Twelve said heatedly, "but Eleven is telekinetic. She picked me up with her _mind_ and threw me across a forest. I woke up twenty-four hours later and a hundred miles away. Do _not_ underestimate her power."

Dustin looked at Scott and replied, "Don't worry. We're working on something specifically targeting Eleven."

"You're sure of that?" Lucas asked. "Because we can't take any chances with her. You remember in Hawkins when she killed a hallway full of Brenner's men?"

Dustin visibly shuddered. "Like I could forget that much blood."

"I think we've got this covered," Scott said confidently.

Scott was normally a wallflower in these meetings, acting as more of a point of reference for complicated weaponry. The sound of his unwavering voice instilled confidence and certainty in the group. Twelve spotted more than one satisfied nod around the table.

Next to her, Hopper ground his cigarette under the heel of his boot and said, "Let's move on, then. We don't have a lot of time."

"Agreed," Dustin replied. "In two days, the Authority will arrive and we have to be ready. Commander Hopper and Lieutenant Hayes will stay here with the Resistance to face whatever threat the Authority presents. Twelve," Dustin and the rest of the table turned to her. "We're asking you to lead a force of one-hundred soldiers into the Vale and complete the mission to destroy the gateway."

The proposition was less surprising than she'd expected. Since her arrival in the Resistance, Twelve had suspected that Dustin had been planning a prominent role for her from the beginning. She pursed her lips and stared at him, watching him grow uncomfortable under her scrutiny. "One-hundred," she said softly.

"We can't afford more than that," Dustin replied.

"We don't even know if we can afford one-hundred," Hopper added.

"But you said that there were fifty Demogorgons when you were in the Vale," Dustin said.

"That was an estimate," Twelve corrected. "And I didn't ask if that was her whole army. For all I know, she has five-hundred."

Hopper turned in his chair to face her. In between his fingers, he was twirling an unlit cigarette. "Look, we can't send you in alone and we can't send half of the Resistance with you." As he lit the cigarette, he asked out of the corner of his mouth, "Can you do it or not?"

Twelve scanned the table. Everyone was frozen in their chairs, heads turned and staring at her. She wasn't in a position to refuse—something Hopper had obviously already figured out. If she wanted to be involved, this was her only option. And she'd come here to make a difference so… "I can do it," she said. Then, standing up, she continued loudly, "But I have two conditions: Holly has to keep her guard. Even when I'm gone. Even if the Authority is attacking. I want those three soldiers with her and ready to get her the hell out of here if things go wrong."

Dustin nodded and, to her left, Hopper said, "You got it."

"What's the other condition?" Lieutenant Hayes asked.

Twelve remembered Joyce's visit the night before. "I want Jonathan Byers taken alive, at all costs. Joyce deserves that much."

Dustin exchanged looks with Hopper. "Well that's really your decision," Hopper said. "You're leading the mission. You're leading the attack. And you make the orders."

"You've got a second-in-command who's going to be able to help execute your orders and direct your soldiers as well," Dustin told her as Twelve took her seat.

"Who's my second-in-command?" she asked.

"That would be me," Lucas said as he stood at the other end of the table.


	23. Chapter 23

Twenty-Three

After the meeting, the Resistance had to be addressed and updated—something they were all expected to attend. Dustin led them to the center of the headquarters where Twelve was shocked to find a massive crowd waiting in the broad, empty lot across from Dustin's office warehouse. On the sidewalk in front of the warehouse was a shabby, plywood platform. Dustin used a couple well-placed cinderblocks to hoist himself onto the stage and there he spoke through a megaphone to the thousands of defectors, exiles, soldiers and citizens. And even though his amplified voice echoed crudely and crackled with static, his message was clear.

He thanked them for their decision to fight, applauded their courage and welcomed them to the Resistance. After a round of cheering, he spoke more seriously, his voice heavy and robotic through the megaphone. The Authority was coming, he told them amid a few terrified gasps. But the Resistance would meet the Authority's forces and repel their attacks. Dustin's voice was so impassioned and his movements so forceful, even Twelve believed that the Authority couldn't break Dustin. And if Dustin couldn't be broken, then neither could the Resistance. This was Dustin's movement and these were his people. He might name Hopper or Twelve or anyone else as leader or commander, but the truth was clear to anyone who stood in that crowd and heard the passion in his voice and the responding cheers of Dustin's people.

As he continued, Twelve heard his speech turning toward the mission in the Vale and she knew he'd be introducing her shortly. Dustin warned her earlier that he intended to announce her at this gathering, but he'd assured Twelve that she wouldn't have to speak. She only needed to be present. His meaning wasn't entirely clear to her until she heard her cue to step up to the platform.

" _…dangerous mission will be led by the most notorious Slayer_ ," Dustin's amplified voice echoed. " _Rebel and exile of the Authority. TWELVE!_ "

Pulling herself from an inconspicuous corner behind the platform, Twelve leapt up to the stage and faced the deafening roar of over three thousand cheering voices. Hands reached up, waving, stretching, pumping fists into the air. It was an inspiring and unbelievable moment of raw emotion and Twelve felt her eyes tickle with tears and her throat grow scratchy and tight. Turning to Dustin, who still held the megaphone at his side, Twelve caught his grin and raised shoulders. "I told you," he mouthed. But it wasn't just the support and power being funneled toward her that left Twelve trembling. She understood that this fight was more than just her own. It was more than her family and her friends. Everyone standing and cheering in front of her and the countless others who were too terrified to rally had just as much at stake. This resistance was a movement for the people, by the people, and Twelve understood that she was a piece of the whole and it was only together that they could win. Her heart pounding, she grabbed her machetes and wordlessly held them high above her head, doubling the cheers that erupted from the Resistance until the voices united in a thunderous chant: _Twelve! Twelve! Twelve!_

* * *

"Was it not what you were expecting?" Dustin asked an hour later as they cut through the slushy streets.

"It's not that," Twelve said, trying to understand what she was feeling. "It's just… this isn't just an impulsive rebellion for these people. You've created a viable movement and everyone involved is _dedicated_ —really, truly dedicated."

Dustin tipped his head, peering down at her as they continued along the road. "I know why you chose the path you did," he said. "You were protecting Holly. We all respect that. But for a decade we've been building the Resistance. No part of this has been spontaneous. Every person who was in that crowd today knows what's at stake. And every one of them still chose to come here, knowing that if we fail, we die."

Twelve didn't reply immediately. In retrospect, she realized that she never gave much thought to Dustin's long-term effort to establish a safe place for exiles and build a rebellion. What he said was true; she'd spent the past decade focused on her own existence and Holly's survival. What happened outside of that shortsighted bubble never interested her until she was exiled. Of course the Resistance wasn't something that materialized from the clear, blue sky. It was the realization of ten years of hard work and dedication.

"I'm sorry, Dustin," Twelve said.

"Don't apologize."

"No, really," Twelve insisted. "I underestimated the Resistance and I underestimated you. I always thought you just handled the black market."

Dustin grinned sheepishly. "Acquisition and distribution have always been key elements in preparing the Resistance," he said. "The black market is the cornerstone in our funding, our networking and our ability to stock everything from the armory to the cafeteria." They stopped at a four-story brick factory with warped, yellow windows and a green metal door. "And keep in mind," Dustin added as he led them inside, "this isn't a one-man show."

After her eyes adjusted to the dim, filtered light, Twelve spotted Scott standing at a table near the back of the factory's first floor. Surrounding him were massive machines. Twelve identified an industrial band saw and noted the conveyor belt that ran half the length of the building along the east wall, but she couldn't put a name to the other machines. Above them, two tiers of metal catwalks ran the perimeter of the building and nestled in the corner of one was an abandoned office. Twelve imagined it was for the foreman, years ago when this building had another purpose.

As they neared Scott, they passed desks covered in blueprints and rulers, shelves of binders, boxes of tools and scrap metal, and tables filled with electrical instruments that Twelve had no name for. This, it seemed, was the place where Scott and Dustin created their weapons and, sitting conspicuously in front of Scott was one of their inventions.

It looked similar to the EMPs—spherical, metal—but also smaller and darker in color. Since it was obvious that Twelve was brought to their invention factory specifically for this new weapon, she asked, "So what is it?"

Scott's mustache immediately spread beneath his grin and he plucked the globe from the table and held it out in front of her. "This is your solution for Eleven."

Twelve glanced at Dustin questioningly, but didn't say anything. She held out her hand and took the sphere, rolling it delicately between her palms. There was a raised notch on one side and a channel to slide the switch. She rested her thumb against it, but didn't push the button.

"It's similar to the EMPs in its style of discharge," Dustin explained. "But this beauty will only emit a non-nuclear electric shock." He took the sphere from Twelve's hands and pointed to the notch. "Flip the switch and throw it. Three seconds after being activated, it will release an electric pulse affecting anything within a two-foot radius."

"So, what, we just throw that at Eleven?" Twelve asked.

"That's the gist of it, yeah," Dustin replied. "Make sure she's preoccupied so she doesn't see it coming. Then, _Boom!_ , she's down." He placed the sphere back on the table. "But remember, this is temporary. It's like shocking the Demogorgons. She's going to wake up. Assume that you have a few solid minutes of unconsciousness and move fast."

"Move fast?" Twelve asked coolly. "As in, kill her before she wakes up?"

Dustin frowned. "As in, do what needs to be done to complete the mission." He pressed his lips together and looked at the floor before adding, "Eleven isn't unreasonable, but she is more powerful than you. If she poses a threat to the destruction of the Vale, I trust that you'll make the right decision."

There was a moment of awkward silence where the only sound was the wind cutting through the cracks in the windowpanes. With a deliberate shuffle of papers, Scott held out a clipboard. "Here's the roster," he said to Dustin.

With a nod, Dustin took the list and handed it to Twelve. "Meet your team," he said. "This is a list of who will be under your command for the mission to the Vale."

Twelve held the clipboard to her right, catching a square of bright light from a particularly clear window pane. Next to each name was a brief description—age, sex, previous training. She pressed her index finger against the sheet and ran it down the length, her eyes darting left to right as she scanned. After the second page, she let the clipboard slide down and looked at Scott and Dustin. "You're giving me military professionals," she said in awe. "Over thirty people were in the army before the Vale. Twenty-six in the air force, plus reserves, navy and marines. There are seven military police on this list."

Dustin crossed his arms and, next to him, Scott was smiling behind his mustache again. "I told you that we were sending trained soldiers into the Vale," Dustin said. "Shutting the gateway is crucial. So the team you're leading was hand-picked for this particular mission."

Twelve felt a clash of encouragement and dread. Placing the clipboard on the table next to the sphere, she said, "Dustin, I'm a small girl with a bunch of scars and no formal training." She tapped the list with her fingertip. "Why would they follow me?"

Dustin grinned as though he'd been expecting the question. "They've heard of you. They've heard what you're capable of and trust me when I tell you that they want to believe it's true." He nodded at the clipboard and admitted, "No one on that list is from the twenty-fourth colony, so they haven't witnessed you in an actual match with a Demogorgon. But they're looking for a leader and all you need to do to convince them that you're worth following is to demonstrate your abilities." He raised his eyebrows before adding, "Which you will do here, tomorrow morning."

Twelve scrunched her eyebrows together. "What are you talking about?" she asked.

"You remember the Demogorgon statue you shattered with the flail? Well, I've got more of them and tomorrow morning, in front of your team, you're going to demonstrate what you can do with those machetes." He nodded at the blades hanging from her waist. "We're going to create an ambush-type scenario and have you take out a few more of the statues."

"That's it?" Twelve asked.

"Everyone's been training with these statues and not one of them can puncture the PVC piping without a flail. If you can break them with your machetes, that's all your team is going to need to see."

Twelve nodded. "Tomorrow morning, then."

Dustin placed a hand on her back as they headed for the door. "Lucas is briefing your team on the mission this evening. So if you want to take some time to spend with Holly or to go meditate in a frozen field somewhere," he flashed her a knowing grin, "knock yourself out. Just be back here tomorrow at oh-seven-hundred."


	24. Chapter 24

Twenty-Four

The clock read just after three and the moonlight from another clear night cast its cool glow across the apartment. Twelve eased herself out of the bed, ensuring she didn't wake Holly. Stepping into her pants and cinching them at the waist, she crossed the room and leaned heavily against the countertop. She'd barely had four hours of sleep, but she was wide awake and her thoughts were reeling.

After leaving the factory, she'd visited Joyce and found a broken woman. The image of Joyce—destroyed from the thought of her son alive, but in the Vale—was one she'd seen before, twelve years earlier when Will had been trapped. It haunted Twelve and it devastated Joyce.

"Promise me," Joyce had said, clutching Twelve's hands in a vice-like grip. "Whatever it takes."

Twelve had nodded, her throat tightening uncomfortably in the horrible silence of Joyce's apartment.

"Bring Jonathan back to me."

Her plea still echoed in Twelve's mind as she leaned into the counter and raked her fingers through her hair. Seeing the desperation in Joyce's eyes, Twelve would have promised anything. But this request was one Twelve had already promised herself earlier. Traitor or not, Jonathan had to be given the opportunity to defend his actions. Twelve found herself staring absentmindedly at the tattoo on her wrist and as she ran her index finger along the bluish ink, she wished there was some way she could extend the same opportunity to Eleven.

Seven o'clock arrived in a wash of brilliant sunlight, singing birds and the steady dripping of melting snow. Everywhere she walked now, she drew the attention of anyone in her path. No longer looking for an armored god surrounded by bodyguards, the Resistance's inhabitants recognized Twelve for the average-looking woman she was and she returned their smiles and waves as she passed by.

Outside of the factory, Dustin and Lucas were waiting for her. "We're going to take you around back," Dustin said as she approached. "There's a room that leads into the rear door of the factory where you can get ready."

"What do I need to get ready for?" she asked, following them around the corner.

Fat drops of cold water struck them from the eaves above as they skirted the edge of the factory. Behind the building, there was a single-story addition jutting out into the courtyard. Stepping inside, Twelve spotted Scott standing near a curious control panel that was wedged between rows of rusted green lockers. There were a couple warped wooden picnic tables that led Twelve to assume this had once been a breakroom of sorts. Ahead of her, a windowless metal door was shut and she suspected her team was on the other side, waiting for their leader's display of reaper-thrashing.

Twelve turned to face Dustin and Lucas, curling her thumbs around her waistband and looking expectant. In the corner, Scott watched them attentively.

"Are you going to tell her?" Lucas asked Dustin.

"Tell me what?" Twelve asked.

Dustin scratched the side of his head, knocking his hat to the ground. He picked it up, slapped it against his leg a few times and tugged it back on before responding. "I may have… understated the setup here."

Twelve stared at him in silence.

Lucas stepped forward. "I told Dustin about your meditation technique and how the trance has affected your fighting." He looked apologetic, but Twelve wasn't irritated. She nodded, still confused and waiting for Dustin to elaborate.

"There are more than just a few Demogorgon statues in there," Dustin explained. "I won't say how many, but we've worked to setup a realistic scenario, hoping that you can trigger your trance and really… y'know… be badass."

Twelve snorted.

Dustin rolled his eyes. "Just, treat this like you were in the Vale, okay?"

"Take out the Demogorgon dummies," Twelve affirmed. "Anything else?" She peeled off her jacket and dropped in on one of the picnic tables. The ever-present pressure of her hunting blade strapped to her back was reassuring as she prepared herself.

Dustin shook his head. He indicated the door and said, "Whenever you're ready."

The day before, filtered orange light had flooded the factory and lit up the tables and machinery. Not anymore. As the door clanged shut behind her, Twelve's eyes adjusted to the bizarre red light that cut faintly through the darkness. The floor level was almost pitch black. The tables, boxes, shelves and machines had all been cleared away and along the walls, she could just make out shadowy forms hugging the edges of the floor. Above, the red light glowed faintly and she saw the silhouettes of her team members standing on the catwalk above her. They shuffled impatiently, craning over the railings to get a good look at the notorious Twelve. In the very center of the factory was a single white spotlight, its beam shining on a crusty drain in the floor and casting light on nothing else. Taking the initiative, Twelve stepped forward and stood beneath the spotlight, ignoring the audible coughs and shuffling footfalls above her. She concentrated on stilling her mind and entering the trance, but the inherent bizarreness of the entire situation kept disrupting her meditation.

Suddenly, with a mechanical exhale, the lights and power shut off, plunging them into absolute darkness. The shuffling and whispering from above stopped immediately and the only sound Twelve heard was her own breathing. Her fists tightening around the machetes' handles, she slowly spread her feet to steady herself and waited, cautiously, for the first target. Somewhere nearby, a leak in the roof let through a single, constant drip that echoed forever around the tense factory. _Tick-tick-tick_ … And as her mind relaxed to the metronome of the dripping, Twelve began to slip into the trance.

Almost as soon as the meditation took effect, a solitary fluorescent tube to her left began flickering. The light blinked sporadically, illuminating the brown burns that curled up the ends of the tube like a hazy gradient. To her right, one of the red lights joined the blinking, its faint glow echoing the fluorescent flicker like the dying glow of a smothered ember.

Twelve held her position. She caught herself instinctively searching for the presence of a Demogorgon before remembering that this was just a mock-ambush. In the hollow chill of the factory, with the buzzing generator flickering the lights that threw clashing shadows across the concrete floor, it was easy to lose her sense of reality. So when the first statue erupted suddenly from behind, racing forward in a blur through the flashing gaps of visibility, Twelve forgot that she was just training. With a deafening crack, she brought her machetes swinging into the side of the statue's torso, splintering the pipe and knocking the twelve-foot dummy crashing to the ground. Twelve barely had time to register the braided black hoses that made up the lifeless statue's arms as it collapsed when the fluorescent light shut off with a deflating hum. The red light, now behind her, still pumped flashes of crimson, briefly illuminating black silhouettes and throwing long shadows across the brick walls.

A shuffle sounded from her left and a second monstrous statue flew at her from the side. As she wrenched her body, angling her machete upwards into a powerful uppercut, another statue began gliding toward her, its jaws shuddering in the cascading light. Her first strike knocked back one Demogorgon and, with a seamless arc, she brought around her second machete, lodging it in the next statue with another echoing crack. Before she'd freed the blade, a third reaper was rushing her. From directly above, the blinding spotlight began a hesitant flickering, joining the red light's chorus. Rallying her concentration, Twelve dislodged her machete, kicked down one reaper and, with a powerful side swipe, cut down three of the five rubber jaws of the incoming reaper. She spun to face the only Demogorgon still standing and noticed, suddenly, that the factory wasn't just filled with her panting and the rolling castors of the statues. The low rumble of a Demogorgon's snarl filled the building like the slow roar of an avalanche. Sweat flew from her swinging arm in little droplets as Twelve shattered another reaper's torso. As she readied herself for another onslaught in the disorienting clamor of light and dark, the bone-chilling nickering of a hunting Demogorgon cut through the factory like a lightning strike and two more reapers shot out from the darkness.

Again and again they came. Twelve cut them down, cracking and shattering their torsos, hacking off limbs and even beheading a short reaper. Her movement was almost choreographed—perfect and lethal. Each blow shook the walls and elicited cheers and cries above. She fought until sweat dripped into her eyes and her legs trembled. She swung and she thrust, landing blow after blow, until the floor was peppered with shards of plastic piping and she stood in the center of a ring of Dustin's dead reapers. The lights still blinked ferociously, but the Demogorgon's roars and rattling was drowned out by the stomping feet and hammering fists of her team as they cheered louder and stronger with each hit.

As the twentieth reaper crumbled to the floor, the red lights along the second level switched on, casting a steady, dim radiance that indicated the end of the demonstration. Twelve blinked in the unfiltered white spotlight overhead and sheathed her machetes, gazing vacantly at the mounds of black rubber and rope and plastic that surrounded her. In the darkness of the factory, they still resembled Demogorgons, even as piles of lifeless rubbish.

The sudden sound of castors against the concrete floor brought Twelve back to attention and through the curtain of shadows ahead, she saw one more statue flying toward her. She'd already yanked free her hunting blade and thrown the knife when two things happened: she realized this statue was different, and the rest of the lights powered up. The wash of fluorescence blinded her temporarily, but she heard the dull _thunk_ of her blade striking the statue and the resounding cheering and howling from above that immediately followed. As her eyes adjusted, Twelve saw the new target sitting at the edge of her pile of dead reapers. It was a six-foot dummy made of wood and cardboard, wrapped in burlap, with a crudely drawn face and, beneath Twelve's blade, scrawled across the dummy's chest in white paint was a single word: _BYERS_.


	25. Chapter 25

Twenty-Five

The factory walls shook and the catwalk clattered beneath the stomping boots and pumping fists of her team. Their hoots and cheers swallowed the small space so that Twelve's furious demands— _Who did it? Who wrote that?!_ —were drowned in waves of noise and triumph. She shook angrily and her heart hammered as she tried again and again to demand an answer, but the men and women that surrounded her were too enthralled and excited to notice her rage. And she was too infuriated to notice Lucas climbing across her wreckage until his hand hooked beneath her arm and he was pulling her back to the breakroom.

"Who did it?" she demanded as the steel door closed on the clamor of the factory.

Dustin, Scott and Lucas exchanged glances. "We don't know," Lucas admitted.

"I had five guys pushing out the reaper statues," Dustin added. "I can talk to them, but I don't think this was meant to upset you."

"How?" Twelve asked, rounding on him. "We're not even one day into my leadership and my soldiers are already defying part of the mission."

"That's not exactly true," Lucas replied. "They don't have your orders yet. They know that Eleven and Jonathan are heading a Demogorgon army in the Vale and that we might have to confront them in order to access the gateway, but that's the extent of their knowledge. The briefing I gave last night was impersonal information. It was data, Nancy." He chewed his bottom lip and stared at the door as the noise on the other side slowly subsided. "You're leading this mission, so you should be the one to give the order for Jonathan's arrest."

"Whoever put together that dummy," Dustin added, "was probably assuming that part of the mission was to take out Jonathan. This was an act of support, not defiance."

Twelve let out her breath slowly and wiped the sweat from her arms with short swipes. She swept up her hair, feeling the wetness at the nape of her neck and knotted her braid a little higher to let the sweat dry. Grabbing her jacket and pulling it back on, she said, "I need to talk to them." She met Lucas and Dustin's eyes in turn before adding, "Now."

The courtyard had ample space for everyone and they filed out of the factory, filling the slushy square. An extra picnic table, warped from time and weather, was dragged from the corner of the yard to the center and Twelve stood on top, her feet planted across the wavy boards. She looked out over her team—one-hundred experienced soldiers and trained professionals—and reminded herself that she was in charge. At the front of the group stood Dustin and Lucas. Twelve returned a tight nod from Lucas and cleared her throat loudly. At once the low rumble of voices ceased and a hundred faces pointed up at her.

"Thank you for coming here today," she said. "And thank you for your sacrifices. Not just the sacrifices you're making by accepting this dangerous mission, but also for the sacrifices you've already made by pledging yourselves to the Resistance." She scanned the crowd before continuing. "I know that Lucas Sinclair already discussed the mission with you last night, so I'll make this brief. Our goal is to destroy the gateway that is located in Hawkins, Indiana, in the Vale. That is our _only_ goal. And we will do whatever it takes to complete that goal." She paused to allow a quick cheer. "There is an organized group of Demogorgons inside of the Vale. I know this because I've seen it and I've met their leader. And I hope that we don't meet them again when we reenter the Vale tomorrow, but if we do…" she raised her voice over the murmur of agitation. "If we do, then we will fight. Because, no matter what, we have a job to do and that gateway _must_ be destroyed!" Another round of cheers erupted. "But if we do fight, then your fight is with the reapers. Their leader, a young woman named Eleven, is stronger than any of us combined. You will avoid confronting her at all costs. Do you understand?" A general sound of consent rose from the crowd. "She will be taken out by me and Sinclair, using a specialized weapon designed specifically for her."

"What about Byers?" a voice cried out from the crowd.

Twelve pressed her lips together and propped her hands on her hips. Out of the corner of her eye she detected a slight movement and spotted Lonnie standing at the corner of the factory, leaning against the brick wall and watching silently. He had dark rings around his eyes and bore the same lost expression as Joyce.

Turning away from him, Twelve announced, "Jonathan Byers will be given the opportunity to surrender." There were a few sounds of dissent. "If he refuses, he will be arrested and brought back to the Resistance where he will be tried. Either way," she insisted, "he will be taken unharmed." She expected more resistance, but the order seemed to settle without issue. A handful of soldiers nodded compliantly and the rest quietly waited for her to continue. She got the impression their acceptance was more a matter of professionalism than agreement, but as long as the order was followed, she didn't particularly care what they thought of it.

Rallying her determination and courage, she ended loudly, "Tomorrow morning we're going to set out to finally destroy the Vale and bring an end to the Demogorgons. Tomorrow begins our mission to reclaim the world!"

A chorus of cheers followed her off of the picnic table and Twelve was met with her team as they rushed forward. She spent the next twenty minutes shaking hands and memorizing names. She discussed the marching path and the provisions needed. As she slipped out of the crowd, Dustin mounted the picnic table to direct everyone back to the armory where they would each be equipped with a flail and a gun. He began discussing other supplies as Twelve entered the breakroom. She let the door shut quietly behind her and glanced around, ensuring the room was empty. Cutting in between the tables, she snuck back into the factory and marched to the middle of the building where her plastic and rubber corpses still sat in piles. The last dummy was on its back, the blade of her knife sunk deep into its chest, right in the middle of the letter ' _Y_.' Placing her foot next to the knife, Twelve yanked it out and returned it to the sheath on her back. After a moment of consideration, she tore the burlap fabric from the dummy, folding it so the name ' _BYERS_ ' was hidden, and walked out the front door. Around the corner, yellow tongues of flame flicked above the rim of a rusted metal barrel. Twelve dropped the wad of burlap into the fire and watched as the fine fibers burned away into ash.

* * *

Two hours before meeting Holly for dinner, Twelve was back out in the barren field, lost in a deep meditation. She'd wanted to sit down with Lucas first and then pore over the maps again. She'd intended to pack her bag for the trip and talk to Dustin one more time. But a restless nervousness overcame her and she returned to the field to force her mind into silence.

Again and again she reminded herself that she wasn't just leading one hundred civilians into the Vale. She was leading soldiers and trained rebels. They were capable and they were armed. Yet the dread of responsibility for their lives weighed heavily and darkly after she'd left the factory that morning. And everywhere she looked, she saw the faces of people whose lives depended on her success.

She escaped the haunting fear of her own failure in the field, where she slipped into a merciful trance and the rest of the world vanished. Her breathing slowed; her muscles relaxed and a complete serenity consumed her. For how long she stood, utterly still and calm, she couldn't say, but as the sun sunk below the horizon, a resounding twinge touched her scar, like a chord being plucked deep inside her. Twelve's eyes slid open and she turned to face the iridescent curtain that cut the two dimensions. Beyond the ghostly fluttering of the barrier stood a single Demogorgon. Its slick skin reflected the purple glow of the Vale, but its jaws—clamped shut and twisted like a beak—were still glossy and black. It was turned toward Twelve, as motionless as she was, its claws curled back and its feet sunk into the soft earth. They stared at each other for what felt like eternity and Twelve sensed the clash of emotions that roiled within the Demogorgon: unbridled aggression and submissive tranquility. The two urges churned tumultuously, like a vicious soliloquy that was silent and invisible to anyone but Twelve and the Demogorgon. Finally, with a defeating sag of its broad shoulders, the Demogorgon yielded to obedience and slouched away into the Vale.

Twelve watched the undulating curtain that separated their dimensions until the shifting black form of the reaper had disappeared before turning and heading back to the Resistance.

* * *

"Joyce said that you agreed to bring Jonathan back," Holly mentioned later that evening. She was sitting on the mattress with her legs folded against her chest and her arms wrapped around them. She propped her chin on her knees and stared across the room at her sister.

Twelve nodded. "I gave the order this morning," she said.

"It'll be good for Joyce to have him back," Holly replied wistfully.

Spread across the floor in front of Twelve was the contents of her backpack for the following morning. She knelt in front of her road map and tried to recall the locations of some buildings that seemed likely spots for her team to stop and spend the night. This time they would be stopping for breaks. She had to keep in mind that she wasn't traveling alone; she was traveling with… She stopped herself before finishing the thought. Her instinct was to say ' _humans_ ,' but what would that make her?

"I don't even know if we'll see Jonathan again," she said to Holly. She grabbed the canvas bag next to her and began stuffing it with bottles of water, a couple MRE pouches, a compass. She considered the rolls of gauze and thin pouches of iodine before remembering that she would be traveling with people whose wounds didn't just heal in a day or two. Scooping the first aid supplies into the bag, she glanced up to see Holly watching sadly.

Twelve dropped her bag and leaned back into her heels. "There's a good chance we'll see him," she said, thinking of the Demogorgon that was spying on her earlier. "And if we do, he's coming home with us."

Holly gave her a sad smile. "And what about the girl?"

Twelve didn't respond. What could she say?

"Eleven?" Holly asked. "She has a nickname like yours."

"It's not her nickname," was all Twelve could manage.

Holly was quiet for a moment while she considered Twelve's response. "She was friends with Mike, wasn't she?"

Twelve sniffed uncomfortably and turned to look out the window. She caught her right hand cupping her upper left arm where her brother's name had been tattooed into the pale skin and pulled her fingers up to her face instead, pressing them nervously against her lips.

"What's going to happen to her?" Holly asked.

Twelve dropped her eyes back to the map where a black ' _X_ ' marked a bunker ten miles from the Resistance. Rebar had drawn it with a permanent marker earlier that day. "If the Authority launches an attack on the Resistance while you're still in the Vale, we've been instructed to take Holly and Joyce to this bunker," she'd told Twelve earlier that day. "No matter what happens, she'll be safe."

Twelve folded the map and tucked it into a pouch on the side of her backpack. She dropped the bag next to her machetes and hunting blade before sitting on the bed next to Holly. "I don't know what's going to happen to her," Twelve answered finally. Then she wrapped her arm around her sister and watched the moon rise outside of their window.


	26. Chapter 26

Twenty-Six

The walk to the barrier was the worst part. She felt distant and numb, leaving Holly again. And not just Holly. Twelve felt the weight of the Resistance and the lives of everyone that she was walking away from. She didn't lift her head as she wove through the streets, but she could feel the eyes that peered down at her from the apartment windows above. And as her team joined her, in twos and threes, marching through the gritty ice, she felt their eyes trained on her as well.

"Remember the reach of your flails and don't clump together," Lucas announced at the barrier. The team formed before him, looking somehow smaller than before. To the east, the sky lightened with the promise of dawn, but they would be inside the Vale before the sun broke the horizon. "Stay vigilant. Don't wander off. And don't get yourselves killed."

Twelve looked across the field where Dustin and Lonnie stood quietly. She addressed her team. "Do not engage Eleven or Jonathan Byers. If you see a human, report to me or Sinclair immediately." The men and women in front of her stared stonily ahead into the gloom of the Vale. They each carried backpacks with provisions and supplies. Each had a gun and a flail holstered to their belt. They were seasoned, Dustin had assured her. They were trained; they were lethal; they were obedient. Still, Twelve couldn't force away the discomfort that threatened to overwhelm her as she nodded to Dustin, then sharply turned and led her team through the barrier.

On the other side, the wind hushed and the world plunged into a gulf of consuming silence. A hazy purple glow replaced the rising gold that had been curling over the horizon and everywhere spectral motes clung to the air in a perpetual, slow descent. After the initial moment of shock, they plunged forward, intent on their mission. Twelve cut through the Vale's version of the field, skipping lightly over the glossy black tendrils that crisscrossed their path. She found the remnants of a crosswalk and led her team beneath a set of traffic lights and up the ramp to I-65 South.

A few glances over her shoulder told her that the nervousness was gradually fading from her team and instinct was kicking in. Most of them had at least one hand on a weapon and their eyes darted left and right, vigilantly. Twelve didn't say a word as she drove forward. She focused instead on locating any nearby Demogorgons. In quick pulses she felt for them, lurking beneath bridges or hiding in the trees.

Lucas matched her pace, his boots breaking through nets of webbing that dangled between the tendrils. "Can you sense any?" he asked under his breath.

"No," Twelve whispered back. "But I will. Eventually."

Lucas gave her a determined look and dropped back a few feet.

They walked until the sun began to cut through the Vale like the glimmer of light that dances on a water's surface. They walked until the tentativeness of her team ebbed to the point of allowing short conversations and quiet remarks. They walked through a field of desolate vehicles on the highway, broken down and half consumed by vines. They walked until their conversations and footfalls were swallowed by the wet muteness of the Vale and they walked in silence again.

Twice they stopped that first day—for food and rest. But they made good time and when their first fourteen hours had ended, they still hadn't come across a single Demogorgon. Despite their apparent luck, Twelve was certain that the reaper she'd seen the day before knew she was returning. Behind her, the team was flagging. Their feet were sore, their muscles tired and their packs heavy. She withdrew the map and ran her finger down the selection of buildings nearby that could potentially house them. Choosing a large cathedral two miles off of I-65, Twelve abruptly cut to the right, taking them off of the highway.

Most of the pews in the nave of the cathedral were still standing, though the altar was a mesh of knotted tendrils and yellowish film. They filed inside, marching through the vestibule and fanning out among the pews. Most of the stained-glass windows were broken and afforded a limited view outside, but they agreed to appoint two guards to keep a rotating watch while the rest of the team slept. Twelve found a stack of folded chairs in a closet and propped two outside the massive front doors. After the initial rustling of their movement had subsided, she addressed the team. "I'll keep watch throughout the night," she announced. "We'll head out in…" She checked her watch and finished, "…six hours. So I need three volunteers to take a two-hour shift each."

Lucas gave her a sideways glance. Twelve expected him to volunteer, but hands shot up in the crowd before he had a chance and she selected three familiar faces: a small woman named Rebecca, a lanky towheaded guy named Chuck and Paul, a young soldier who seemed eager to prove himself. The volunteers she didn't select barely seemed to mind as everyone tried to make themselves as comfortable as possible for a six-hour nap in the Vale.

"I'm not going to be much company," Twelve said to Rebecca as they stepped out the front doors into the vast wasteland. "I'll be… meditating."

Rebecca looked confused, but slung her pack onto the unfolded chair to the left of the doors and took a solid stance with her hands set firmly on her hips. Feeling a little awkward and unsure, Twelve added, "Just let me know if you have any questions." Then she took a seat and began pushing her mind to stillness.

Moments away from a trance, Rebecca's voice rang out, "Is it true that you don't sleep?"

Twelve's eyes blinked open and she stared across the street to a little corner store with illegible red print etched into the cracked front window. She turned to see Rebecca watching her curiously. "No, that's not true," she replied. "I don't sleep as much as other people and I won't sleep tonight. But I _do_ sleep."

Rebecca made a little _oh_ sound and nodded. "You were amazing," she said. "Back at the Resistance, when you took down all of those fake reapers, it was the most incredible thing."

Twelve looked back at the little corner store, counting the bricks that had dislodged from the building and were lying on the sidewalk. She tried to think back to that morning in the factory. Afterward she'd spoken to almost everyone in her team. Shutting her eyes, she tried to recall what she'd discussed with Rebecca. She shuffled through the faces, stories and handshakes until she remembered: Rebecca had been in the ROTC in undergrad and had joined the Reserves after graduating. She was a little older than Twelve and was a single mother.

"How's your son?" Twelve asked, wishing that she sounded more engaged in their chat.

"Jeremy's fine," Rebecca replied. "He's at the Resistance, staying with a friend while I'm here. I'm surprised you remembered that I have a son."

Twelve shrugged.

"He met Holly, by the way." When Twelve stiffened, Rebecca added, "He didn't tell anyone else that she's your sister." After a brief pause, she said, "Neither did I."

"It's fine," Twelve replied, shaking her head. "It's not a secret."

Rebecca relaxed and gave her a toothy grin. "He likes her a lot."

Twelve nodded. "I'm not surprised. Holly's great with kids."

Rebecca's smile faltered. "Jeremy's fourteen," she said. "Did Holly not mention him to you?"

Twelve felt a hot rush across her cheeks. "No," she said carefully. "What exactly do you mean that he 'likes' her?"

Before Rebecca could answer, one of the great doors swung open and Lucas leaned out, blocking her from Twelve's view. "We have an issue," he whispered urgently.

As Twelve hurried into the vestibule, Paul, one of the other volunteers, took her spot outside. The door shut silently and Rebecca's concerned face disappeared behind the wood grain. "What's going on?" Twelve asked as she followed Lucas through the second set of doors into the nave.

They were headed toward a knot of soldiers huddled on the floor near the altar. "A few guys were trying to move one of the pews and the bench broke," Lucas explained. "When it collapsed, they all went down, but Robert cut his leg pretty badly."

When they reached the altar, Twelve spotted Robert in the middle of the group. One leg of his pants was pulled off and a spotted bandage was already wound around his thigh just above his knee. His face was screwed up and beads of sweat dotted his forehead and dripped down his temples. Tight puffs of air hissed from his flared nostrils as Twelve noticed the gruesome red blossoming beneath the bandage. One of the three guys kneeling around him cursed under his breath and pressed a fresh wad of gauze against the wound, eliciting a sharp gasp from Robert.

Twelve felt helpless and lost. She glanced around the church. Half of her team was asleep, unaware anything was going on. The other half was training their worried gazes at Commander Twelve. "What am I supposed to do here?" she whispered to Lucas. She was at a complete loss. "I don't know how to treat this kind of injury."

Lucas, his eyes round and face ashen, replied shakily, "I'm not worried about treatment…"

It hit Twelve like an electric jolt, resonating deep inside. Then her scar thrummed as more shocks staggered throughout, cutting through her core, terrifyingly deep and powerful. "The blood!" she gasped as she threw herself to the nearest window and peered out into the hazy darkness. Through a curtain of pale fog and listless specs of dust emerged the first black shadows, marching toward the church.

Behind her, the wooden doors of the inner vestibule rocketed open and shook the stained glass that still clung to the window frames. "Reapers!" came Paul's petrified voice. "They're coming!"


End file.
